Yesterday's Paradise
by hopesetfree
Summary: "Who we were, what we did... That's not who we are now." (Gadreel/Sam; Castiel/Dean) This is the story of how Gadreel, the lost angel, and Sam Winchester, the broken man, saved one another, by virtue of a single leap of faith. (Goes AU at the end of "I'm No Angel." Dean convinces Gadreel to talk to Sam, and Castiel remains at the bunker.)
1. Chapter 1

_AN: Sam/Gadreel, Destiel, Kevin and Charlie being awesome, Gadreel and Castiel as brothers in arms, issues of vessel consent, fluff and angst, Castiel with kittens: This fic has it all!_

_You can check my profile for a link to my AO3 account (Archive of Our Own), where I have a version of this fic that's a bit too colorful for FFN's rules. Also, if you choose to bookmark this fic, you'd best do it there. My username is the same on both sites._

_Thank you to my beta reader, Furf. This fic would only have been a shadow of itself without your amazing help._

* * *

He stumbles through a vast and overwhelming desert, every glittering grain of sand a wound he cannot bear to hold. He won't lift his head to look at the horizon, for he can never reach it, even as its inexorable pull trembles through his nerveless fingers.

Pride tells him the aching years and tests have purified him. Anger presses darkly upon him, even as he drowns in his own culpability, all flaying at his skin like glass. He could have stopped it all. He failed.

Envy of the dead almost destroys him.

He stumbles blindly towards an unbearable horizon he shall never reach. He weeps in agony, tearing viciously at himself, for the desert torments him, thrumming through his very core. And his legs never give him the mercy of faltering. The wind and sand and light burn him no less.

One day, the blistering light runs dry and all his awareness becomes consumed in fire, skinning him clean, evil and bloody and holy. Anguish tears at him anew when he comes to and sees a new desert before him to wander, perhaps as undying as the last.

He just wants it all to be _over_, but it never, ever ends.

He stands, and walks.

* * *

Dean's voice has a thread of a tremble running through it.

"Sit down, Sam."

Alarm pools low in Sam's gut, iron-heavy, forcing the air from his lungs. "What's going on, Dean?

"I got to tell you something, and you're gonna be pissed off." Dean plunks down into the chair, his mouth opening and closing hesitantly. His forehead wrinkles. Yeah, this can't end well.

"Okay…"

"Those trials really messed you up."

That again? Sam sighs, his face tightening. "I know that, Dean, but I've been feeling better—."

"No, you _don't_ know," he interrupts, waving his hands as though he could weave comprehension into form. "I mean messed you up like almost dead. No more birthdays, dust to dust. Well, that messed _me_ up, so I made a move, okay? A tough move about you without talking it over because you were in a coma."

The corners of his lips turn downward, his eyes narrow. "Huh? A coma?" He shakes his head. Weren't they driving around in the Impala for an entire day after the trials? Sure, he'd been knocked clean out, but… "Dean, we ditched the Trials two weeks ago. I feel fine."

Dean's visage darkens. "You don't get it. I made a big choice, okay? You were in the hospital, and they said you were gonna die."

Anxiety curls against Sam's spine, tingling hot through his limbs. Whenever it comes to Sam and dying, Dean has a track record of doing stupid things.

"What did you _do_?" he demands, voice thick and rough.

"You've got to stay calm, okay? If this goes sideways after I fill you in, you could still die. Seriously, you could drop dead right where you're sitting—."

"Dean," Sam interrupts, "I'm as calm as I'm going to be. Tell me what you did." His nostrils flare as images of crossroads demons and other frightening alternatives dance in his mind.

Dean chokes on the words like they're made of lead. "I let an angel in."

Sam's brain scrambles to make sense of it. Of all the desperate things Dean could have done, talking to an angel didn't sound _quite_ so bad.

"Uh, okay," Sam says, his heart beating rabbit-fast. "Why are you upset? You let an angel in the hospital room to heal me?"

Dean looks away, eyes dark. "Seriously man, you got to _stay calm_—."

"Dean, whatever it is, just spit it out!"

He meets Sam's eyes, voice whisper-quiet and small. "In you."

Sam frowns, his mind a cloudy storm of confusion, because nothing makes any sense at all.

Dean leans forward, exhaling harshly. "I let an angel _in you_. He said he could heal you, and he is."

Sam inhales and holds the breath tight, feeling the burn of it in his lungs. Understanding arises all at once, flowing through his entire body in a single, white-hot rush.

"You let," and Sam has to pause, breath tense and heavy, because he knows he's two seconds away from shouting. "You let an angel _possess_ me? The hell is wrong with you, man?"

His brain chooses that moment to play catch-up, and Sam's thundering heart nearly halts. Dean had just finished telling him to stay calm or this would all go sideways; that he might _drop dead_ instantly if he didn't keep his cool.

Oh, god. No.

"Wait, wait, it… Is it still inside of me?" Sam sputters, fear coiling in his gut, hot and startling. Another rush of anger boils over, because this is too much, even for Dean. "How? I never invited it in!"

Dean drops his face into his hands, because apparently looking his brother in the eye has become too much to manage. "I tricked you into saying yes."

Sam springs to his feet, red-faced and shrill. "You… I…! What the _hell_, Dean?" Fear and anger both run frigid and hot through his veins, because there's a freaking angel inside of him somewhere and obviously, possession _never_ goes wrong. "Why would you make a choice for me like that? You know I'd rather die!"

"You were in a coma and we were under attack by other angels! I didn't have time to friggin' ask, all right?" Dean shouts back, jaw clenched. "Look man, you can kick my ass all you want to, but right now, you need to understand if you kick him out, you're dead."

"Dean…"

He stands slowly, as if any sudden movement might make Sam flee. "Be pissed at me, okay? Yeah, I let him in. But if you kick Zeke out now…"

Sam bites down on his tongue, trying to calm the cascade of pure, white-hot rage encompassing him. "Zeke? Is that his name?"

"Uh, well, that's what I call him," Dean stammers, his voice softer. "When he saved my ass, he was doing the whole 'witness protection' thing to hide from the other angels, going by Ezekiel. But his real name is Gadreel."

"So he _already_ lied to you?" Sam snaps back, his attempt to keep his voice to a minimal level all but forgotten. "Dean!"

"Just shut up, okay?" he says, holding out his hands palms up, pleadingly. "He brought Cas back yesterday, okay? Cas was dead. That reaper iced him, and Zeke brought him back."

Sam pauses, tries to catch his breath—the effort feels like trying to reign in a racehorse bare handed. "Why the hell am I just hearing about this now? If it's been…" He trails off, counting backwards in his head. "Jesus, Dean, it's been more than two weeks! Didn't you think I'd want to know an angel was riding my skin?"

"He thought you'd kick him out if we told you," Dean says. "I thought so, too."

"Damn right I'm going to kick him out!"

"No!" Dean shouts so loud it echoes throughout the room. "Sam, stop! You do that, you drop dead, right here and now!"

Sam brings his hands up and grasps the sides of his head, fingers tangling in hair. "When were you planning on telling me? Never?"

Dean's eyes narrow, but his voice remains steady. "He was gonna heal you and split, and you were never gonna know the difference."

"And why are you telling me now? What went wrong with that _brilliant_ plan?"

Some of the fight evaporates from Dean. "I convinced him to talk, okay? Cas was here, and all these angels are after him. Turns out they don't like Zeke too much, either. And Cas… he would've known, Sam. He would've figured it out."

Sam turns a livid glare on his brother. The topic of Castiel _would_ end up forcing Dean's hand. "Why are _you_ the one talking to me, then? Why isn't 'Zeke' speaking up?"

"Because I knew you'd blow your damn top, man!" Dean hisses. "That you'd boot him out first and ask questions later—oh, except, there'd be no later, because you'd be dead!"

He draws in a breath through clenched teeth, willing his heart to slow, because he really needs to calm down for a second. This isn't his first rodeo. He did all this with Lucifer before, in an ultra bad situation. This is… maybe less bad. Maybe. The angel hasn't made off with his body yet.

He closes his eyes and scrutinizes his mind for any speck out of the ordinary, but finds nothing. He finds not a single emotion out of line, not one stray thought. He hears no voice whispering in his ear.

"Why can't I feel him?" he asks, voice raw. "Last time an angel used me as a suit, I felt like I'd been thrown into an icy river and dragged down into the rapids."

"He doesn't, like, listen in," Dean says, gesturing at Sam's head. "He hides out inside your head, doing his healing thing."

A long silence follows, stretching oppressively between them. Sam shudders as thoughts of possession, of losing his entire body to yet another invading leech, roil deep and anxious within his gut.

Sam's absolutely certain he's never been as enraged at anyone, _ever_, as he is at his brother.

"I was ready to die, Dean."

"I wasn't!" Dean's entire body goes tense, even as he drops down into the seat. "Look, I just wasn't. I couldn't." He closes his eyes. "You'd have done the same thing for me."

That draws Sam up short, his entire body going rigid.

He really doesn't get it. Dean has never experienced possession from demons _or_ angels. He's had a ghost overcome him before, sure, but it's not the same as an angel or demon wearing his skin. In theory, he probably can imagine it (Michael _had_ been after him a few years ago), but imagination doesn't hold a candle to the reality.

"No, Dean," he finally says, his voice quiet even as it strains and trembles, "I wouldn't."

He can pinpoint the exact moment Dean realizes he's not kidding. An icy wave of revulsion, bitter and cold, rises in Sam. How did Dean actually think Sam would ever willingly let something possess him?

Of course, the short answer is he _didn't_ think.

Dean's vulnerable expression lasts only a moment. He turns his head and nods once, almost as if Sam's reaction had been perfectly expected.

"You can't kick him out, Sammy. Not yet," Dean tells him. "Don't go and do something stupid because I did."

Sam finds himself again confronted with the reality of an angel hiding in his head. _Right now_. Sam's ready to spit and claw and tear at the _thing_ until it leaves, because his mind belongs to him and him alone, thank you very much. And what decent angel would agree to a coerced 'yes?'

There's just the pesky detail that he'll die if he boots the intruder preventing him from screaming 'no' until his throat bleeds. He had been ready for death, before, but right now he's _too busy_ to die, dammit.

Sam draws in a breath, cool and steady, searching for equilibrium in the sea of emotion. "What does Cas say about all this?"

Dean hesitates. "Cas doesn't know yet."

Sam shuts his eyes, running a hand through his hair. He isn't sure why he's even surprised. "Why?"

"Gadreel is spooked by the other angels. He's on their 'most hated' list, just like Cas."

If true, Sam thinks the two angels should have a lot in common. He ditches the conversation with Dean, closing his eyes to concentrate. He searches mind and body for any trace of the squatter.

"Where are you, angel?" he hisses through gritted teeth, viciously ransacking every far-distant corner of his mind for something he can neither hear nor feel. He makes an abortive gesture for Dean to _shut up already_, just in case he gets the bright idea to start talking again. Sam doesn't want to hear it.

Something seems to hear _him_, though, stirring at Sam's call. A hushed presence unfolds inside of his head, expanding slowly. Sam feels a rush of radiant, soothing warmth—as if standing next to a fireplace, burning steady on a frigid winter's day.

A voice that's everywhere and yet not answers his call: "_I am here, Sam Winchester."_

Sam's blazing fury cools a sliver. The angel feels small and wounded, Grace flickering like a candle in too stiff a wind. Echoes of pain not his own, tender and fresh, thread dully through Sam's body. The soothing heat he'd felt a moment ago remains, but stutters with effort, as if it's all too tiring for the angel. His Grace feels far from robust, bleeding off of the angel like a tap left to drip.

His anger further cools as he considers this unexpectedly damaged presence. Of course. The Fall. Some angels even died, didn't they?

Sam's never felt gratitude to Lucifer (one never quite comes to appreciate status as the Devil's favorite chew-toy), but those hard-won lessons with the archangel may become handy. He's capable of kicking this angel out if it comes to a struggle. Right now, it'd even be easy. He need only tell it to leave.

The warm presence draws in on itself a fraction. "_Yes, though such action shall be unnecessary. I will leave if you wish. But Sam, you are not well."_

Sam thinks about just skipping the pleasantries and subduing the angel, injured as it is, and forcing him far, far beneath the surface, just as he managed to do with Lucifer. But then, he'd managed _that_ for all of a minute, but it's plenty long enough to kick an angel out. Sam's certain he can pull it off again, if necessary.

The angel shifts within him, a pulse of anxiety aching in Sam's bones, but does not protest.

It actually makes hot, liquid rage boil inside of him again. How dare the angel feel anxious? Consequences be damned, it's Sam's body, and Dean had no right to invite anyone into it. He should make it leave _now_…

Though, there's a perfectly good reason he avoids big decisions when he's so angry he can't think straight.

Do angels fresh off the heavenly express think any 'yes' will do? Do they not comprehend the importance of a 'yes' freely given? It makes Sam think about Jimmy Novak, and watching him beg Castiel to leave his daughter's body and take his own. Talk about duress.

Mostly, he feels gripping fear, his nerves aflame and stinging. This angel can simply overwhelm him at a moment when Sam's not vigilant and steal his body. Or, hell, while he sleeps.

_"I give you my word, I will not,"_ the angel tells him softly, accompanied by a soothing flare of warmth to ease Sam's aches. _"I believe in honor, Sam."_

Sam doesn't want the angel to whisper assurances in his ear, or to comfort him. He wants his solitude, his _privacy_. He feels caged with no options, like he's stuck in a ring with powerful lion who promises it won't bite. He _can_ drive the predator out, but fate has rigged the exit and he'll die if he follows through.

Though, Gadreel has had opportunity before now to do just that, yet hasn't. He could have taken Sam over entirely and used him as a vessel. He could have strolled right out of the bunker one night when Sam slept, and no one could have stopped him. Sam may indeed feel caged, but the angel has not done anything overtly threatening.

Or maybe Sam's just trying to convince himself, because kicking it out means he dies instantly.

That'll have to do for the moment, it seems. It's not like he has an actual choice.

His anger cools somewhat, at least towards the angel (Dean remains another story). His anxiety, however, roiling winter-cold and heavy, goes nowhere. He'll deal with it later.

"Since you're wearing me as a suit, let's get properly introduced. I'm Sam. What's your name?" It comes out bitter, cold, and hardly sincere, but it's the best Sam can offer.

"_I am Gadreel."_ If the angel feels offended, he doesn't show it. "_I have previously hidden under the alias Ezekiel, but my brothers would know me as Gadreel." _At the mention of other angels, Gadreel draws inward minutely, something akin to a shudder trying to escape.

"You're afraid of them," Sam says, a statement rather than a question.

It's not so surprising, really. Angels aren't the friendliest bunch, and helping out a Winchester would certainly do an angel no favors in the eyes of his peers.

Gadreel doesn't answer—doesn't need to, as Sam feels a rush of fear coiling sharp in his gut, feels the angel tucking into himself as if he might disappear entirely into Sam again.

"Hey? You still with me?"

Sam can only feel him through his many wounds from the Fall; a dull, pulsing throb throughout his Grace.

"_You will not know I am here," _he tells Sam, his voice calm and certain.

But Gadreel feels neither calm nor certain, Sam realizes. Desperation coils hot along his skin, pulsing out in dim swaths of light Sam can almost see behind his closed eyes. Certainly, the angel can hear his thoughts. The fact Gadreel doesn't disagree, or even comment, says enough for Sam.

"_I would leave as soon as you are healed." _It almost sounds like a plea, a request for safe harbor in exchange for healing duty.

Actually, Sam realizes, that's probably exactly what's happening here. He's still not happy about it. At all.

"You pull anything funny," Sam finally says, "and I'll kick you right the hell out. Got it?"

"_Understood."_

"And when I'm healed—."

_"I leave."_

He blows air through tightened lips. "All right. For now."

Tension unwinds between Sam's ribs. The angel's Grace goes soothing and cool against his skin, no longer threadbare and taut. The same warm glow he'd felt before returns, like soaking in the heat of the sunshine.

"_Thank you. Fear not, your privacy is honored. I do not eavesdrop."_

Sam frowns, because he's worried about more than just privacy. Surely the angel understands?

Gadreel's acknowledgement diffuses through Sam's muscles, fluttering and just a bit dejected.

"_If you require my assistance, call upon me."  
_  
Gadreel retreats back to his hiding place. Sam's awareness of him fades into a tiny pinprick until he evaporates entirely away.

The warmth does not completely fade, however, even as Gadreel seems tuned out and tucked into wherever he's hiding. The flicker of soothing heat causes Sam to realize he's unknowingly felt an echo of the angel's presence all along.

His eyes open slowly, blinking as he adjusts to the light. Dean stares up at him in clear distress, even as his eyes shine with unasked questions.

"Sam?" he questions softly.

"Yeah, it's me, Dean."

Sam feels alone in his head, for now, though he's painfully aware there's a passenger along for the ride. The faint glow of Grace remains, whisper-soft and gentle despite Sam's anxiety, his fingertips tingling. In any event, the angel isn't present anymore. It strikes him with some measure of relief.

His gaze falls upon Dean. "You and I need to talk."

It's less talking than shouting, and it lasts half the night, but it's the best Sam can manage.

* * *

After venting at Dean and cooling down, Sam finds himself determined to learn more about his stowaway. He could just knock on the angel's hidey hole and ask, but he'd rather do the research himself. So naturally, he starts by nosing around in a dusty, acrid tome of angelic lore.

Gadreel: the Wall of God. The Watcher. In Aramaic, the variant is Gadriel, for "God is my helper."

Beyond the name, Sam finds nothing optimistic.

He stars in many roles in Talmudic, Enochian, and Biblical lore. He's the third of five Satans. He's a fallen angel, a high-ranking demon. In one telling, he even stars as the snake, tempting Eve in the Garden of Eden. One book claims he taught war to mankind. He's almost shown in a more damning light than Lucifer.

With a reputation like that, Sam thinks he might hide, too.

It would be easy to dismiss Gadreel by the lore alone, but Sam knows by now the lore doesn't always tell the whole story. The lore paints Raphael as a miraculous healer, and in reality he'd tried to bring about a second apocalypse. Gabriel certainly hadn't seemed much of a divine messenger. And Sam's certain Castiel doesn't have much to do with Thursday (though it's probably worth asking).

He'll just have to wait and see.

If Gadreel listens, Sam notes he has nothing to say. It's far more likely the angel hasn't tuned in at all.

All at once, Sam has an idea.

* * *

A special place forms when one becomes possessed, a piece of mental landscape overlapping between host and possessor. Sam knows it well, because twice before he's been there. It feels as sharp and clear as the real world, but it's made of scattered thought, of fragmented pieces of the both of them glued together.

When Lucifer had possessed him, Sam sometimes found himself summoned there, usually because the Devil wanted to have a face-to-face chat. It always had an element of consent—Lucifer could never force him there (or never tried, at least). Meg was different. Sam had found himself locked inside, beating hands bloody on the walls, no escape possible.

This headspace, the genesis of two minds, provides ideal conditions for an honest heart-to-heart. Sam might speak to the angel possessing him directly, but he'd have to endure a level of non-privacy far more vivid than his earlier conversation with the angel.

Sam's already tuned in to the landscape's rules and passive emotional bleed-through, but the angel wouldn't yet have such an advantage. Sam certainly doesn't intend to stay long enough for it to happen, either. He inhales deeply and closes his eyes, thumbing through the wrinkles within his mind for the mental headspace. He has no idea what to expect.

When he opens his eyes, he's standing in a grand library.

It has the ancient feel of the bunker's own library. A set of tables linger between two rows of bookshelves, and the Aquarian Star adorns various fixtures in the room. Featureless brick lines the walls, solid and unyielding, while the floor feels cold and solid beneath his feet. It has the same dusty scent of aged paper, and the faint taste of ink burns sour in Sam's mouth.

Beyond those details, however, it isn't like the bunker's library at all. It dwarfs it in sheer size, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stretching to the far-distant corners of the room. Despite the familiar smell of dusty tomes, it remains entirely devoid of books. A hearth crackles nearby with a lovely fire, radiating heat and comfort. A long, plush couch and a sofa linger nearby, tempting him to rest his tired legs.

With Meg, this mental landscape had felt like drowning in a sea of black; dragged asunder in something heavier and sharper than water. He'd never seen any light at all, just blackness and frantic terror he couldn't break free of, no matter how hard he tried.

With Lucifer, it took the form of a lonely, abandoned building, reminiscent of the one in Detroit. Colder than a clear, Antarctic night but brighter than the surface of the sun, it had streamed with eye-searing light, so luminous his bones ached with the raw agony of Lucifer's power.

Both had been awful, awful places. This library seems different.

Sam steps carefully through the grand library, eyes momentarily falling upon immaculate, empty bookshelves. The couch actually seems large enough for his long legs, unlike most. Gentle heat flows from the nearby fireplace, its light flickering steadily. It feels just shy of cozy, like the newness of an empty house just before you begin unpacking.

He pauses to stretch numb fingers towards the fire and sighs, the aroma of burning wood sharp and rich in his nose. Even if this place isn't exactly physical, it yet remains as vivid as reality in every way. At least this time it doesn't strike terror into the fiber of his being.

He's alone, but Sam had expected no less. After all, he'd have felt Gadreel long ago if the angel had dallied here. Even now, with Sam poking around, Gadreel hasn't made himself known. It makes him wonder, briefly, if perhaps the angel truly means to leave Sam in peace, as he claims.

His cheek twitches. He's never heard of a case of possession anything like this before. An angel hiding from its vessel? Healing a body from within, without taking control of it?

Sam sighs. While the scenery intrigues him, he didn't come here for the ambience.

He closes his eyes, focusing on the soft, pulsing warmth seeping underneath his ribcage. In this place, the angel can't hide from Sam, even as small and hidden as he's made himself. He clutches with a mental grip around the warm Grace and tugs, calling the angel forward.

The angel stirs at once, his confusion thrumming hot against Sam's skin. Grace shifts in discomfort, the awareness of Sam's summons leading to a pulse of worry. While he doesn't resist Sam's pull, he doesn't swiftly answer, either.

When Gadreel doesn't immediately show his face, Sam doesn't tug at the angel so much as yank. Hard.

The angel's surprise ripples through Sam's bones as he all but tumbles into the room, eyes wide and breath catching. The sight satisfies Sam more than a little, because so long as Gadreel knows Sam can control him in some manner, the better.

The angel's shock fades after only a bare instant, standing ramrod straight and expressionless.

Sam doesn't recognize the form before him. Lucifer always appeared as Nick, so he's probably seeing Gadreel's former vessel. He's tall, only slightly shorter than Sam. Well-built and solid like a barricade, though Sam still outdoes him in sheer size. Dark, dirty blond hair and green eyes rest in a face framed by a razor-sharp jawline. Verdant eyes shine with intensity, but don't seem unkind.

Wall of God, indeed. With his statuesque posture and stoic air, he's a wall of solid stone.

His skin looks bloodless and ashen, perhaps a representation of the angel's injuries, Sam thinks. He seems solid and strong enough, yet not quite healthy.

No. Stop.

Sam didn't bring him here to feel sorry for him. He pushes the would-be compassion away.

He opens his mouth to speak and stops short, a wave of anxiety not his own sweeping low and tense around his spine. No matter how calm the angel looks or how severe he holds himself, he feels none of these things, and it's all laid bare for Sam to see.

This place in a nutshell: Cruel, brutal honesty. Sam's been through this before, so he knows his way through it. The angel either hasn't caught up yet or refuses to show it.

"So, I've been reading about you," Sam says.

Gadreel's upper lip twitches minutely. As Sam recalls his research, the angel seems to view it for the first time, eyes gone distant.

"I see," he says calmly, as if he weren't awash with apprehension.

Sam quirks an eyebrow. "I thought maybe you'd want to tell me the real story?"

His face betrays only a barely-there frown, but Sam feels dread curl in the angel, shame fluttering on the edges of his awareness. There's more—a well-concealed sadness that pools somewhere cold and dark, and a restlessness rumbling through his core that doesn't fit with his stony guise.

"No, I would rather not," Gadreel finally answers, his breath a steadying one, his intense gaze never deviating from Sam. "I do not suppose that will suffice, though."

He can feel Gadreel within him, drawing thin and burrowing deeper within Sam, as if to hide from the human's scrutiny. He doesn't run away from the library, however, and Sam can't let him. He needs answers from the angel.

"I know you're healing me," he starts, softening his tone for the angel's sake. "And that's…. Look, I have to know your story. If you're a good guy with a bad reputation, I just need to know what's going on." Sam lets his lips curl into an slight, if bitter, smile. "If you're a Lucifer groupie, on the other hand, I need to know that, too."

Gadreel's face contorts, horror-stricken. Well, so much for humor.

"Would that I had ended him myself," Gadreel says, his jaw twitching.

But the angel isn't angry. Shame, frigid and knife-sharp, thrums within his Grace, chilling Sam right down to his bones.

Sam personally _knows_ that kind of shame.

"I made a mistake," Gadreel admits, looking away from Sam to study something interesting on the wall instead. "Lucifer tricked me."

An angry part of him wants to seize upon his words and find fault with the angel before him, even if he doesn't know what they're talking about yet. Yet everything about the way Gadreel carries himself, all his emotions flowing through Sam as vividly as his own, stops him.

It strikes too close to home. He thinks of Ruby and when he accidentally started the Apocalypse. Sam's been fooled, too. And plenty of people found fault with him and didn't care to listen.

Okay. Listening can't hurt. Maybe.

"How?" he asks.

The angel turns his gaze back upon Sam. "The Morningstar appeared to me while I guarded Eden. I refused him entrance. Later, a cherub appeared to me and asked to enter the Garden so it might admire our Father's creation. Angels often came to stroll amongst the beauty of Eden, so I allowed it by." His head tilts, his eyes downcast. "Had I paid more heed, I might have recognized it as Lucifer's deception."

Sam blinks. "So, you _are_ the one who let Lucifer into Eden?"

Well, he probably could have worded that better.

Gadreel's eyes flit up, and he exudes an overwhelming desire to flee, but stands steady. "Yes."

Sam frowns. That's a hell of a mistake, but… Is that all? Just one mistake?

"Yes," Gadreel answers the unspoken thought. "'Just one,' as you say it. But it matters not whether it was one or one hundred. My moment of foolishness ruined all Creation."

Sam watches as muscles in Gadreel's jawline tense and relax, ticking out an anxious cadence. "Can you elaborate?" he asks. "I'm not trying to put you through the ringer. I just want to understand."

The angel's stony face softens a sliver, eyes gone distant and haunted.

"I quickly realized it was no cherub, and alerted Uriel, a fellow sentry. He flew to Heaven to alert the archangels while I searched for the intruder. However, it was already too late. Lucifer had corrupted humanity, ruining the Garden."

Sam's stomach churns sourly, and he's not sure if it comes from him or Gadreel. Or both.

"And so… what? God cast you down with Lucifer?"

Gadreel shakes his head, his mouth set in a grim line. "If only He had been so merciful." He pauses a long moment, weary and exhausted. "My punishment was imprisonment within Heaven. After our Father left, the archangels blamed me for his departure, and Michael decreed I was to remain thus for all eternity. It was not until the Fall that I walked free."

Sam stares blankly at Gadreel for several moments, his words replaying in his mind on repeat. He knows the angel speaks the truth, because lies do not exist here. Somehow, that makes it somuch worse.

The angel says nothing else. He offers no words in his defense. He makes no plea of a wrongful imprisonment.

Sam wets his lips as he tries to find something approaching a calm, passive voice. "You mean to tell me you got locked up because Lucifer pulled a scam on you? For what, like the half-second you were fooled?"

"Yes," he answers. Somehow, the angel tenses up even more. "It was fitting."

Sam's not sure whether he's more surprised Gadreel's not defending himself and pinning blame on Lucifer, or that he seems to completely accept getting tricked makes him worthy of an eternal life sentence.

Sam suspects this interpretation of the angel doesn't ring entirely true. Gadreel probably enjoys his freedom and seems to have no love for Lucifer. He's just not voicing either point, for whatever reason.

Sam halts, and reminds himself again he didn't bring the angel here to feel sorry for him. He's still too angry and worried to deal with sympathy, too. The reminder doesn't quite work, though, because the heaviness weighing down the angel's spirit floods him and Sam's aching with it now.

"That seems kind of heavy-handed, though," Sam finally says, his eyes softening. "I mean, Lucifer's an archangel. Isn't that out of your pay grade?"

The angel blinks, and surprise flares briefly in Sam's chest, even as he appears as still and steady as before. "My brethren do not agree."

It finally clicks. "That's why you're afraid of Cas and the other angels."

"Yes."

Sam reels with the information. It's too much. "Who threw you in prison? God? Michael? One of the other archangels?"

"God commanded it. Michael enforced it."

"He threw you in jail forever? Because you made a mistake?"

Anger, hot and frustrated, threatens to bubble up and spill over for wholly different reasons than before. This might reign as one of the more unfair things Sam has ever heard.

A huff of air escapes the other's nose, his head shaking slowly. "You do not understand. He _trusted_ me. My Father trusted me more than the other angels, and I failed!" He looks away, his heated outburst stilling. "I was distracted. I—."

"Gadreel, stop," Sam interrupts, lips set in a grim line. The angel starts at the sound of his name, possibly because it's passing Sam's lips for the first time. "You made a mistake." He sighs. "You didn't corrupt anyone. Lucifer did."

"If I had exercised better judgment—."

"Stop," Sam cuts in again, flustered and confused. He sighs deeply, irritation sagging with his shoulders. He's not sure whose guilt he's trying to soothe right now. _Being trusted_ and _making mistakes_ and feeling so, so _guilty_ about it all hits too close to home. He swallows hard, his heart thumping as old regrets aching anew. It all pools in his temples, throbbing. "You were fooled. You made a mistake." He pauses a beat. "You didn't do it on purpose."

Sam doesn't know who he's defending, exactly. Probably himself, mostly, and for things long past. He has no reason to speak such kindness to the angel, after all.

Gadreel slips down to the sofa, eyes unfocused and arms open as they rest on his legs. He makes no attempt to hide from Sam's scrutiny. "If not for my mistake, all the ills of the world would have never come to pass." He looks up at Sam. "That is how my brothers view me, and why I took up the name of Ezekiel."

Sam flops down on the couch adjacent, sighing. "You shouldn't pretend to be someone you're not. You should just be you."

Gadreel's stony façade melts away for a bare moment, incredulous, before resuming a solid mask. "Among my brothers, my name is synonymous with the evils of Lucifer and demonkind. I have no chance of redeeming my name among them."

It's silent in the library for a long moment. "You think they'd kill you," Sam finally says, understanding. "And so, you're hiding."

"Yes." The angel's expression twists, regretful. "I am sorry, Sam, that I nearly chased away Castiel. Fear of the others overcame me."

Sam bites the inside of his cheek. Everyone feels fear, sometimes, until they learn how to deal with it, he thinks quietly. The angel may or may not hear him. "Hey, you brought him back from the dead. That's awesome."

The corners of his lips turn upward. "It seemed an unfitting end. Dean was also highly distressed."

Sam smiles faintly, anger momentarily stilled, though a thousand different things demand answers. Why did Gadreel hide from Sam from the beginning? Why did he abandon a perfectly willing vessel for one he had to trick?

"We should talk to Cas," Sam says instead.

Gadreel frowns at the suggestion, and Sam can feel terror wrapping around his spine in all the wrong places. "No."

"Cas will understand—."

"He will not," he interrupts.

Sam huffs, his eyes narrow. "Cas disobeyed Heaven a lot of times. I mean, he disobeyed Michael and led a rebellion against Raphael. If any angel has a chance of understanding, it's him."

He feels the angel before him shrink into a tiny, minuscule space within, yet the image of him here never moves at all.

"I will leave."

It's spoken softly, with more than a flicker of worry, but it's still a threat. Sam thinks he doesn't mean it, but he can't know for sure. He doesn't really think the angel's sure, either.

Sam sighs, his exhaustion bone-deep and raw, and leans against the soft couch. "Look, I… I get it. You've been locked up this entire time, and you're afraid. Fear is a healthy thing."

"For a human," the angel adds.

"And for you, too, now that you're living among humans. Fear keeps all of us safe, lets us know when we should run. But there comes a time when fear paralyzes us and keeps us in dark places for too long. Sometimes fear makes us do things we never would have normally done, you know?"

Gadreel narrows his eyes fractionally, unconvinced. Sam just frowns.

"Look, I spent time in Hell with Lucifer," Sam continues. "So, I know how hard it can be to trust someone after being locked away and tortured." He buries his face in his hands, wanting to get through to the angel, because they can't keep this secret from Cas. They just can't. "So, I guess I'm asking you to trust me on this. If you can."

Gadreel blinks slowly, his eyes settling on the fireplace. "And if I cannot?"

Sam briefly considers pulling rank, in a sense. He could give him the option of talking to Cas or getting out of his body, but knows an ultimatum won't accomplish anything. Besides, Gadreel already knows he can ditch Sam at any time. Though between the angel's injuries and Sam's questionable ability to control a possessing angel, passing around threats becomes kind of pointless. It'd suit everyone better if he just tries to play nice. Sam doesn't have a marvelous track record at that, though, not when he's angry.

"Then, we'll figure something out." Sam says, not wanting to keep Cas in the dark, yet desiring to extend an olive branch to the angel in his head, too.

When Gadreel's eyes meet his, Sam thinks he sees something akin to astonishment there, as though he hadn't expected Sam to compromise (he probably didn't, Sam thinks). He thinks he can feel it, too, a flutter of _something_ moving inside his ribcage. It's probably nothing, but it might provide an opening.

"But if anyone can, he'll understand," Sam tries again.

"I allowed the corruption of God's most perfect creation. Any angel would desire to kill me."

"You made a mistake. You didn't _allow_ anything. And please, humanity is far from perfect."

Gadreel actually recoils at this. Sam's confusion lasts for about two seconds before he realizes exactly what he's just said, and thinks he might as well have thrown acid on the angel's guilt.

"That's _not_ what I meant. I mean we have free will. We make the wrong choices sometimes, too."

After a long moment, Gadreel nods slowly. "God's most treasured creation, then."

The sincerity of the statement resonates through Sam. "You haven't met many of us yet, have you?"

"Just you," Gadreel admits. "And your brother, of course. My former vessel remained asleep for the brief duration of my residence."

Sam snorts at the idea that all Gadreel has to go on for the values of modern humanity are Sam and Dean. God help the poor guy. "Bad examples."

Gadreel's eyes furrow, and he appears deep in thought. "I understand why you say that, but I must disagree. I find your example to be in keeping with my Father's expectations."

Whoa, wait, did an angel of the Lord just say Sam would live up to _God's_ standards?

"Yeah, uh… look. In case you didn't know, I've done some bad stuff. I'm no one's good example. You probably shouldn't take it too seriously."

The lines of his face furrow deeply. "I do not understand. It is your actions now which define you."

Sam tries not to gape, and fails. Yeah, the angel doesn't get it. Yet, his soothing, calm voice does something to Sam, because he's sincere.

His stomach feels heavy, and he thinks he should thank him, but the words stick in his throat. After all, he's still the angel who worked with Dean to trick a 'yes' out of him, and Sam's not ready to offer a 'thank you' for anything just yet.

They sit for a while, the quiet broken only by crackling from the hearth, where the angel examines the fire as if it contains the secrets of the universe. Sam can feel the warmth of the angel's Grace surging through his body bright and clear, a striking contrast to when the angel hides and virtually disappears. Gaps and inconsistencies where Grace has previously torn thrum softly, nearly out of Sam's awareness, yet to heal.

Time will tell, Sam supposes, how this will all work. Hopefully, it won't have to last long.

Something shifts within the angel, his jaw tightening, a thick swallow bobbing his Adam's apple. A strain of disquiet pulses through Sam again, dull and unsteady.

"As you wish, then" Gadreel finally says. "Let us speak to the angel Castiel."

"You won't regret this," Sam reassures him, reveling in the small victory.

* * *

_AN: Some may have noticed I plucked the story of Lucifer-as-a-cherub fooling Eden's guard straight out of Milton's Paradise Lost(though, in Milton's work, it was Uriel who was fooled, not Gadreel). This explanation may end up Jossed by the end of Season 9, but I like the idea too much to not include it!_


	2. Chapter 2

He's absolutely certain Gadreel's cringing inside his skin, _totally_ regretting this.

"Whoa, whoa, calm down, Cas!" Dean shouts, holding back the former angel.

"You son of a bitch!" Cas spits at Sam, either unaware or uncaring that Gadreel remains in the backseat. "All of this! All of it is your fault! The Apocalypse, demons, all of it! You ruined the universe!"

A ripple of guilt and anguish cascades within the angel, stealing Sam's breath at the intensity of it. It's a familiar feeling—too familiar. Old words rise unbidden in Sam's mind, nearly ancient accusations echoing his ears:

_You're sorry you started Armageddon? This kind of thing don't get forgiven, boy. _

_Drinking demon blood? This is about as far away from strong as you can get. Try weak. Try desperate. Pathetic._

For a moment, red becomes all Sam can see, anger swallowing his mind whole. It's silly, because Gadreel's a powerful angel and doesn't need a defender, but Sam doesn't think it through. He feels hot with his misdirected anger that doesn't even make sense, his fists clenching. He's not sure whether he's mad on Gadreel's behalf or his own, or if he's just mad at the situation.

It takes him a moment to calm down enough to speak. His temper won't help anything. He needs logic.

"Cas, you realize you're shouting at the angel you resurrected you, right?" Sam asks, tone remarkably calm. "Maybe even the only one who would."

"If _he_ hadn't been so weak, none of this would have ever happened!" he spits back, cerulean depths alight with rage.

Dean grabs Cas' arm, spinning him around to face him. "Cas, hey! You got to chill, man."

"Dean, he—!"

"What about me, Cas? I _started_ the apocalypse!" Sam breaks in, voice trembling and swelling. "I let Lucifer out of his cage."

"It's not the same, Sam," Cas shoots back. "Ruby fooled you."

"Oh, sure, _that_ makes it okay," Sam says, voice dry. "Just a run-of-the mill demon fooled me. It's not as if an _archangel_, with all its power, tried to trick me."

Cas' face falters for a bare moment. "It's not the same," he repeats, but doesn't sound quite as certain.

"The angels think you're a bad guy, too, Cas. They think you and Metatron are working together. Isn't there the slightest chance Gadreel has gotten the same rotten press?"

"_No_," he growls. "God Himself imprisoned Gadreel."

He closes his eyes, and sees a bar, closed up for the night, and a circle of angry hunters demanding penance: _Why? You gonna hate me any less? Am I going to hate myself any less?_

Sam's eyes fly open, and he takes a heaving breath. He can't stroll down memory lane, not now.

"Cas, you were God for a while. You let loose the oldest monsters of all, who went out and terrorized humanity."

Cas's face does falter this time, his expression going slack. "Sam, I—."

"I know," he says. "You didn't mean for it to happen. And you did time paying for your mistakes in Purgatory."

He hesitates, blue eyes glancing uncertainly between Dean and Sam. "Yes..."

"What about the angels falling? Do you think you should do penance for that?" Sam presses.

He feels Gadreel shift inside of him, uncomprehending of Sam's tone and purpose, confusion thrumming hot along his skin.

"I... yes." Cas' anger evaporates, and he hangs his head.

Even Dean side eyes Sam at this point, his jaw clenching, as though he's about to jump and defend Cas.

Sam takes a steadying breath and reaches out to clasp Castiel's shoulder. "Well, you _don't_ deserve any more punishment. You've given enough."

Cas' head tilts upwards, the lines of his face creasing. He looks as confused as Gadreel feels within him.

"No mistake is worth eternal punishment," Sam tells him. "Being wrong is not the same as _doing_ wrong. I mean, come on, Cas. You fought Raphael. You may have done the wrong things, but you did them for the right reasons. You never meant for it to turn out as awful as it did. "

Understanding flickers in Cas' eyes, and his expression softens minutely.

"Gadreel made a mistake. Lucifer fooled him for a single moment, and that one mistake has cost him since the beginning of time. Gadreel did not ruin the universe. _Lucifer_ did."

Cas seems more uncertain than ever. "God himself commanded Gadreel thrown into Heaven's dungeon."

"And where is He? God hasn't been seen in a long time, while everything goes to hell around here," Sam counters. "I'm sorry, Cas, but God got it wrong. He split, and the archangels decided to throw away the key. It's unfair."

Gadreel shifts yet again, his Grace glowing warm and constant, and the restless murmur Sam's felt for weeks smoothes somewhat. Instead of retreating into a miniscule pinpoint of awareness, the angel unfolds and fills his body just a little more, as if realizing maybe he doesn't need to hide from Sam all the time.

Perhaps Gadreel has spent all his time since the dawn of humanity hiding; drawing himself into the smallest places, hoping he would be neither seen nor heard. Even though his prison was in Heaven, Sam still knows the angel experienced torture on par with Hell. It's akin to how Sam himself behaved in the Cage, vainly trying to hide from Lucifer's tortures, clawing at the unyielding walls as if he could become a part of them.

An distressed shudder trembles through him, like he's drowning in hellfire again. He survived Hell for far too long, and he doesn't want anyone else to live such torment, either. Whether an enemy, a friend, or an angel he only slightly knows, it's a torture too terrible to wish upon another.

Something uncertain tugs at him, summer-warm and curious all at once, and if Sam could lay eyes upon Gadreel, he has no idea what he might see. Coursing Grace in his muscles comfort with an unworldly touch, his frayed nerves unwinding like unspooled thread.

He frowns. Why does the angel care? Why does Gadreel bother with comfort?

_"I understand torment," _he says with a dispassionate tone, like he's talking about the fucking weather._  
_  
Cas draws Sam's attention away from Gadreel, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I will _try_," he says, his eyes narrowing to slits. "But Gadreel, should you harm Sam Winchester in any way, I will _end_ you."

Hearing Dean's words in Cas' mouth throws Sam for a moment. Anyway, the message arrives loud and clear. "He hears you."

"He should show his face and tell me himself," Cas pushes, face flushed deep red, voice rough and furious again.

Sam levels Castiel with a withering gaze, even as Gadreel's Grace stirs, proceeding to request Sam for permission to take over. Just for a moment, he asks.

Sam's so stunned the angel even asked he forgets he's answering out loud. "_Now_ you're asking? You're already in here."

_"It is your body, Sam Winchester. I agreed to heal you, not use you as my personal vessel."_

Huh. Wonders never cease.

_"Sure, okay. Go talk to Cas."_

The angel expands, blue-white Grace exploding behind Sam's eyes and blinding him for an instant. Gadreel swells to encompass every crack and crevice within Sam's body, light stretching full and hot, enveloping him. While the angel seems strangely well contained within his body, he doesn't quite fit into Sam's skin. It feels awkward and uncomfortable, like wearing clothes a few sizes too large.

Gadreel doesn't fully possess Sam, not really—he's filled with the angel's presence, but not bursting with it. It's not mind-numbing and terrible, not the way Lucifer filled him to the point of agony. Lucifer had been burning, frigid light, the archangel's presence spilling over like Sam's body was a too-full cup, threatening to rip open. His only other reference to angel possession had been Jimmy Novak's 'chained to a comet' sensation, which doesn't match, either.

He feels his back straighten, his posture shifting subtlety. His mouth moves and his voice works without his consent. The intonation, the accent, they don't belong to him.

"I understand, Castiel," Gadreel says with a calmness Sam knows he does not feel at all.

"You should not have concealed your true name from Dean," he adds, his voice harsh like fire.

"Indeed," Gadreel tells Cas, his expression stoic. "I was… concerned, in the beginning."

Castiel glares, but it doesn't have quite the bitter bite of his previous stares. He gives the angel a short, curt nod. "Do not conceal yourself in the future, and perhaps angels might find you more trustworthy."

Gadreel loudly thinks such action would constitute a death wish, but he does not argue. "I will submit to your wisdom on the matter, brother."

Cas' face softens a fraction more, as if he hadn't expected the answer. "Return control to Sam," he orders, in lieu of continuing.

The angel draws up within him all at once, the light and warmth retreating back into the tiny place within Sam where Gadreel hides. It's so quick, so _automatic_ it leaves Sam reeling. He hadn't actually expected him to follow Cas' order so lightning quick.

When Sam had been in Hell, Lucifer had shattered him to pieces. He had come to follow Lucifer's commands with the same kind of automatic reaction: completely thoughtless, as fast as possible, lest his disobedience invoke a cruel torture.

Sam waves his arms, palms out. "I'm here, I'm back."

Cas' face relaxes, though he still regards Sam unpleasantly. "As I said, I will try. I cannot promise anything."

And Sam doesn't miss the flare of restless hope blooming in his chest, a tingle of emotion fluttering out through his fingertips.

* * *

Two weeks pass, and almost nothing changes. If Sam didn't know the thrumming warmth in his ribcage came from the angel, he wouldn't know he had a passenger at all. He's buried deeper than bedrock beneath sandy soil.

So much for the angel not hiding from him. Not that Sam's complaining, exactly.

He tries to calm his nerves about the whole affair, but it feels like trying to contain a wildfire with a single bucket of water and willpower alone. Two weeks later, and he's about as comfortable as he'd feel carrying a boulder on his back.

So he doesn't call to Gadreel, and Gadreel doesn't talk to him. It works… for a while.

He and Dean head out of town to take care of a vampire's nest near Kearney, and it's fairly routine—up until a descending blade glints in the moonlight, the last vampire burying a knife in Dean's chest. Sam lunges forward and beheads it, and drops to Dean's side. The blade cuts clean through his shoulder, jutting rudely out the opposite side. A greenish slime covers an exposed part of the blade near the hilt, and Sam thinks it smells like a poison they've encountered before. Leaving the blade in might kill him. Pulling it free probably means Dean will bleed out.

Sam does the only thing he can think to do: He screams for the angel's help. "Gadreel!"

He does not stir, and Sam clamps his eyes shut, rooting harshly within himself for the angel's presence. He finds a tendril of Grace and yanks hard, pulling at the heat and light at the heart of the angel.

This time, Gadreel's answer is near-instantaneous, unfurling and spreading out his Grace through Sam's limbs so fierce and quick it's like a firestorm blowing right over a firebreak. A rush of extreme confusion spreads as the angel peers out through Sam's eyes, but he quickly divines Sam hasn't called him here for a picnic.

"Help him, please," Sam begs. "You can heal him, right?"

_"I require use of your body."_

"Take it!" he shouts.

The angel surges forward, ill-fitting, but bright and whisper-smooth. Sam feels his back straighten, and he wants to twitch, but can't. Gadreel places Sam's hand, solid and steady, on Dean's chest, a flutter of Grace reaching out, assessing.

"Zeke?" he chokes. Blood lines his teeth, his lips dark with it.

"Do not fear," the angel answers. "I will heal you."

Concern twists though his Grace, prickling like bare skin against snow. One hand presses firm against Dean's shoulder, the other wrenches the vile blade free. He covers the wound, and Sam feels Grace swirling forwards, out of his palm, and into Dean, beating a gentle cadence to match his brother's heart.

It ends abrupt and sharp, energy drained like he's fought a battle with a wall—and lost. Gadreel sits back on his heels, regarding Dean silently, his head tilted. Dean groans, and sits up, kneading the absent wound.

"Nice timing, man."

Gadreel does not meet his eyes, instead taking in the scene with widened eyes, sincere astonishment fluttering in Sam's chest. "Vampires."

"Vamps," Dean agrees. "Dead vamps, now." He grunts, lumbering onto leaden feet. "Weren't you paying attention?"

Gadreel's lips twitch, the slightest of frowns. "No. I do not eavesdrop." He rises to his feet, impossibly lithe and graceful, stretching out to Sam's full height. "Dean, your brother is not well enough to be hunting."

Sam disagrees. He feels perfectly fine, thank you very much.

_"I am certain you do,"_ the angel tells him. _"The presence of my Grace strengthens you. However, you are not, in fact, well."_

"Hey, he told me he was good," Dean protested, mouth twisting.

"He feels well, yes," Gadreel says. "Do not allow this illusion to mislead either of you. I am currently all that holds him together." He regards the bodies on the ground a moment, curiosity flaring in his Grace for an instant. "Your hunt is over?"

Dean snorts, casting a long glance at the bodies on the ground. "We ganked all them bitches, so… yep."

"Then I bid you good night." And he drops back within Sam like a stone in water, folding up into his hiding place, leaving Sam momentarily stunned by the rapid departure.

"Hey, hey, wait a minute!" Sam calls out, only just catching the angel's attention.

_"Yes, Sam?"_ The angel's voice echoes quietly between his ears, somewhat expectant, a thread of exhaustion coloring his Grace.

Actually, Sam's not certain what to say at all, or what he'd even been thinking, calling out to the angel. He's just spent the entire week studiously avoiding any conversation or interaction, as if he could hide himself away from the angel possessing his body.

"Thank you," Sam finally says, "for helping Dean."

A slight pulse of warmth expands from his chest, radiating out through his entire body. _"You are welcome."_ The angel sinks back into his quiet spot, just beyond Sam's ability to easily reach.

As he and Dean clean vamp blood and gooey stuff from their blades, repacking their gear in the Impala, Sam replays the evening's events in his mind. Gadreel's confusion and alarm had been crisp and visceral, and so very real. He's struck all at once with the realization Gadreel has kept his word. He respects Sam's privacy. He doesn't even seem to peek out of Sam's eyes.

Sam wonders if it's lonely in there, wherever the angel hides.

They arrive back at the bunker two hours later, and Dean greets Cas with a clap on the back and a bright smile, which Cas returns. When it's Sam's turn, however, Cas drops his eyes and turns away, making swiftly for another room. A soft, barely there, "Hello, Sam," passes his lips.

Sam just sighs. Cas has to speak to him eventually, right?

* * *

Another week passes with no change. Dean won't let Sam go hunting, Cas still won't talk to Sam, and Gadreel has made no further appearances.

Sam thinks about the angel's absence too much, and it's like bracing himself for a destructive blow that never comes. The other shoe hasn't dropped. If he's completely honest with himself, he doesn't think it's going to. If Gadreel meant him harm, he's had ample opportunity to make a move already. Sam thinks he'd sense it, too, and so far, he's yet to feel anything personally threatening.

He wonders about where the angel goes when he hides. Wonders if his body feels like just another cage to the angel. Sam doesn't know much about Gadreel, but if he closes his eyes and just _feels_, he gets scraps, tiny hints which allow him to start painting an image—an ever-present current of restlessness; a cold well of sadness he can scarcely touch; a flutter of grief.

He's nervous, but now there's curiosity, too, spreading like a slow poison through his thoughts. Who is this angel riding around in his skin? This creature who shares his body but doesn't even fully manifest himself? Why does he feel restless?

Sam ponders these mysteries as Dean and Castiel argue with one another over the topic of pets. Sam blinks back to the present, and glances over his shoulder at Kevin, who hovers near the doorway. Sam exchanges an amused glance with the prophet, and when Dean moves to ask Sam for his opinion, it all goes wrong.

"I don't want _his_ opinion," Cas snarls, far more vicious than strictly necessary, considering they're talking about kittens.

All movement in the room halts, the heat gone frosty and silent.

Sam sighs, exhaling through tight lips. "Cas, did I personally offend you, or something? You won't even speak to me anymore."

His eyes narrow. "It's not _you_, Sam. It's him."

Sam stares, flustered. "You're not getting Gadreel's opinion. Hell, he's buried so deep_ I_ couldn't get his opinion right now if I wanted it."

Cas stares, uncertain, blue eyes stormy with conflict.

"Look, cut him _and_ me some slack, okay? He brought you back from the dead _and_ saved Dean's life, and he's not even whispering in my ear." Sam shrugs. "So, stop taking it out on me, already."

Cas' chest heaves with a loud gust of air. His expression does not soften, but he nods, once.

"Besides," Sam says, "I don't care if you guys get a cat or not. It doesn't matter. You should both do what makes you happy."

Kevin, hitherto silent, adds, "I wouldn't mind a kitten."

Cas snaps his head back to Dean. "See? That's three of us."

"No way, Cas," Dean argues. "I'm allergic to cats!"

Sam can't hold back a smirk. "You could get a puppy."

"Or a guinea pig!" Kevin suggests.

"Will you both _shut up_?" Dean hisses, lacking any mirth whatsoever.

Kevin snorts, face splitting wide with a grin as he ducks out of the room. Sam shakes his head, and leaves the not-boyfriends to sort it out.

He strolls to the bunker's library, letting his body slide down into a chair. He's still smiling, an occasional chuckle working its way free. Imagine, seeking out Gadreel's opinion on a kitten…

It's too bad. Gadreel's reaction to an argument about small, fluffy animals probably would have been hilarious.

The thought draws Sam up short. He should probably try and draw Gadreel out more often, anyway. They'll never get to know one another otherwise. Besides, the angel can't enjoy the isolation and solitude he's imposed on himself.

The idea makes nerves go aflame, his stomach twisting in knots. What if the angel gets the wrong idea and starts taking over? What if he comes out all the time, violates Sam's privacy and autonomy, and ignores Sam's wishes?

But none of these things have happened. Gadreel has only ever done what Sam asks. And he's helped—Sam's still breathing, after all. Gadreel felt concern for Dean's sake when the vampire injured him, and he's offered comfort to Sam, even when Sam had been angry with the angel.

Sam massages his temples, thumbs pressing into tender flesh. He didn't sign up for this crap. But it's not fair to the angel, either, not really, and Sam's not going to pretend otherwise. He hides Gadreel away like he's a necessary evil instead of a living, thinking creature, only to arise when Sam or someone else needs something.

A 'necessary evil.' It's an apt description for how he's viewed the angel thus far. Though it remains true, in a way, Sam thinks maybe it doesn't have to stay that way. As long as the angel listens to Sam's direction and doesn't try and march away with his body, it should sort of work out, right?

He rests his elbows on the table, fingers steepled against his lips. He reaches within, all his scrutiny and focus tuned to the place he knows the angel hides away.

Grace flutters warmly underneath his skin, the angel emerging from murky, unknowable depths in a swift rush, expanding, stretching out, filling skin and bone.

_"Is anything the matter?"_ he asks after a moment. _"I sense no danger in our vicinity."_

Sam's stomach does something decidedly unpleasant at the word 'our,' but he pushes the train of thought away. "I just wanted to talk."

Faint surprise flickers in his chest, though the angel's tone remains even. "Of what?"

"You, actually," Sam says. "I was thinking, you know, maybe you should come out more often. Like you are right now. Not in control, but… present, you know? You've got to be bored in there, right?"

Gadreel remains silent a long moment. _"Thank you, but… I must decline. I have given you my word, and shall not intrude where I am unwelcome."_

Sam frowns. "Well then, I'm inviting you. That makes you welcome. Come out every once in a while. Read a book with me. Enjoy dinner. Or whatever it is angels do."

The angel falls silent, and Sam detects the tiniest trace of _want_ humming through his Grace, fleeting and dim. It makes Sam smile—Gadreel wants to say 'yes.'

_"I promised you your solitude, Sam, and I shall not break my word."_ He pauses. _"And if I am distracted from the task of healing you, I will spend longer within you than you want—longer than we both want."_

Sam blinks, stunned, something caustic gripping at his chest and going right down his spine at the angel's declaration. The sensation stills after a moment, because it's not actually so surprising. Gadreel doesn't like the situation any more than Sam does. Given their scant few encounters, the angel probably even thinks Sam despises him.

_"Do you not?"_ he asks, tone absent of inflection.

Sam inhales deeply, holding the breath. "I was mad, Gadreel, and I've been uncomfortable. But no, I don't hate you or anything." He breathes out slowly, the ticking of a nearby clock ticking loud amidst the silence. He remembers the fiery night he learned of Gadreel's presence, and all of the anger and fear. "I understand why you'd think that, though."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Sam realizes Gadreel probably doesn't like him all too much either. They've talked in earnest all of once, in Sam's library-shaped headspace. Sam had stared him down, demanding the angel give up his greatest regrets and misdeeds to a near-stranger. And Gadreel, despite the anxiety it caused him, had complied.

Only fleeting scraps of conversation had passed between them after the first night: explaining the situation to Cas, and begging for Gadreel's help to heal Dean. Sam had demanded both of these things, as well, prodding until the angel agreed.

_"You are wrong,"_ Gadreel says softly, a thread of gentle warmth weaving throughout his Grace. _"I harbor no ill will towards you, Sam."_

Sam smiles faintly. "Then hang around every once in a while. There's no reason we should stay strangers." He leans back in the seat, the wooden edges digging sharply into his back. "I want to know who this 'Gadreel' is that I'm carrying around inside of me."

After a long moment, he finally says, _"As would I."_

The answer confuses Sam, but he shakes it off. "So?"

_"I shall consider it."_ And all at once, he retreats back within Sam.

* * *

For two entire weeks, the angel does not make so much as a peep. So much for consideration.

Sam sits cross-legged on his bed, MP3 player cycling through his playlist as he reads ancient lore on demons for anything to help them fight Abaddon. Ruby's blade doesn't work. Angel blades won't work. According to Cas, neither will an archangel blade nor a flat-out smiting. Death's scythe might work, if it lives up to its reputation, but they'll never get their hands on it.

Something has to work. Abaddon is powerful, but not absolute.

He closes his eyes as a beautiful violin sonata plays, and leans back against cold, solid brick. Sam hasn't heard this song in too long, and it provides a welcome respite from the research. The music feels bittersweet and tragic, yet delicate. It's one of his favorites.

He's so caught up in the crests and crescendos of the music he doesn't immediately realize the angel's attention has been roused. Grace hums with silent curiosity, and all at once, Sam notices him.

Gadreel freezes—there's no better word for it—sudden anxiety pulsing in Sam's bones, as if the angel feels he's overstepped. Neither of them move for a moment, until Gadreel moves to slink back into his hiding spot. Sam reaches out quickly, pulling gently at his Grace to halt his retreat. The angel stills, though his worry doesn't.

"The song is beautiful, isn't it?" Sam asks. "You should listen to it with me."

It takes a moment, but the tenseness coiled inside of him relaxes slowly, like sap. Sam smiles, and let his mind drift on the highs and lows of the violin's song, swept up in the emotion of the music. Too soon, the song ends, and Sam pauses the music player. The quiet feels fitting after such a gorgeous song.

His rhythmic breathing and the soft cadence of his heartbeat strain against the silence, the silken warmth of angelic Grace flowing smoothly through tired muscles.

Sam's considering playing the song again when Gadreel speaks. _"Yes, it is… beautiful. I have not heard anything like it."_

A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, eyes sliding shut as the angel's gratitude, warm and peaceful, settles everywhere. "I like listening to the violin," Sam says. "Never learned to play, but… I was busy doing other things. Hunting. Getting ready for Law school. I never got the chance."

A low hum of curiosity pulses gently underneath Sam's skin. _"What is a violin?"_

Sam can't stop his face-splitting grin from tearing free. "There's one in the storeroom. I'll show you."

* * *

"I got this. You should kick your feet up and take it easy."

Sam glares. "Dean, it's been more than two months since the Trials. I feel great."

Dean's lips press together, eyes narrow. "Look, this ain't no vamp's nest. It's a demon problem."

"Which is why you should take me," Sam protests. "Dean, I haven't seen anything outside the front door in a month, since we took out an _actual_ vamp's nest." He shakes his head, frustration burning in his skin. "I'm getting better. I can do this."

Sam steals a desperate glance at Cas, hoping for backup, but finds no sympathy in those stern, azure eyes.

Dean nods, all smartass and sarcasm. "And what does Zeke say?"

Dean's never quite gotten out of the habit of calling him Zeke. It's probably harder for him to make a nickname out of 'Gadreel' than 'Ezekiel,' but Sam doesn't doubt for a minute he'll eventually come up with something.

Sam shrugs. "Last I heard from him, he says it's a work in progress. But really, Dean, I'm fine for this hunt."

"You're only fine 'cause you've got an angelic pacemaker." Dean shakes his head. "No, you're sitting this one out."

"He's right," Cas says, finally joining the conversation. "If you overstrain yourself hunting, it will take Ga—him longer to heal you."

Sam stares at both of them, sullen. "I'm fine. Really."

Dean and Cas exchange a glance, and Dean raises his voice. "Yo, Zeke! Come out here for a second."

Sam just chuckles, shaking his head. "He's not here, man."

"Get his attention, then!"

He exhales, a sharp, harsh noise, and rolls his eyes. He clamps them shut and calls to the angel. Gadreel's response comes easy and swift, and he rises up to the surface with Sam.

"All right, Gadreel's listening," Sam tells them.

"Good," Dean grunts. "Now, is Sam in any shape to go ten rounds with a pack of demons?"

Gadreel's surprise—and after a moment, disapproval—flares powerful and hot in Sam's body, leaving his eyes stinging in its wake.

"I'm fine," Sam tells both Gadreel and Dean through clenched teeth. "Come on, I'm _fine_. I can do this."

Dean's eyes narrow, lips set in a thin line. "I want to hear it from Zeke."

Sam exhales, disappointment bitter in his mouth. He knows what the angel will say. He closes his eyes and lets go, pushing Gadreel to go and talk to his brother. The angel complies, Grace expanding hot and full in his skin.

His back straightens in the chair. "Absolutely not," Gadreel says in a voice that brooks no argument, woven through with concern. "Your brother is not well enough for hunts of any sort."

"That's what I thought. Thanks, Zeke," Dean says with a satisfied smirk "See, Sam? You're not going anywhere." He turns on his heels, sauntering away.

Sam tries to sigh, and can't. _"Thanks a lot, man."  
_  
The angel remains impassive. _"It is the truth. If you could see the state of your body as I do, you would—."_

Something high-pitched and crinkling resonates all at once in Sam, interrupting Gadreel. The shrill blast makes Sam cringe down to his very core, and he thinks his eyes would water if they could.

"Chatter from the angels," Gadreel murmurs, by way of explanation to Sam. The reverberating shriek of it dials down to a bearable whistle.

Dean spins around. "What's happening on angel radio?"

Gadreel tilts his head, his eyes narrow. "Angel… radio?"

"Yes," Cas cuts in, finally looking at Gadreel for the first time. "The chatter we—." He halts, shaking his head, and for an instant, he looks stricken. "The chatter _you_ hear of our brothers and sisters. Angel radio."

Gadreel nods slowly. "Curious. Angel radio, then."

The angel's eyes go distant again as he listens, the volume increasing. Sam doesn't hear words, but only the screech of nails on chalkboard, expanding until he thinks his own spine vibrates, ugly pulses skittering across his skin. He wants to cringe, to cover his ears, to claw at his skin and make the awful racket stop. Sam's never heard a noise so appalling in his life.

In the midst of the agony, Sam feels a burst of Gadreel's alarm. All at once, the dreadful noise ceases, and in its wake there's a sweep of summer-warm Grace. It soothes his burning eyes and aching ears, fills the pit in his chest, and smoothes the tension along his spine. In the space of three seconds, Gadreel methodically brushes away every trace of Sam's discomfort.

_"I apologize, Sam. That will not happen again,"_ he tells him. _"I was not aware it would affect you so."_

Sam thinks his body got confused somewhere between the piercing pain and its near-instant relief. A moment ago, he thought his ears might burst open and bleed, and he desperately needed to cringe, to claw, to scream with the anguish of it. Now, he's half-numb with Grace, floating, disembodied in his own skin. It's like being shot up with strong painkillers, except his brain seems to still work fine.

Sam's state doesn't escape the angel's attention. _"I will return your body, now. You may relay the information to Dean and Castiel."_

Sam frowns, or the mental equivalent of it, anyway. _"No, you do it. It'll be faster."_

Gadreel hesitates, worry tingling hot against Sam's skin, but he nods.

"Fighting has broken out between two factions of angels," he says, addressing the other men in the room. "One is under the leadership of an angel named Malachi, while the opposing faction follows the angel Bartholomew."

"Bartholomew…" Cas' voice trails off, and he shakes his head. "Why are they fighting?"

Gadreel squints his eyes, concentrating. Sam hears the sound of angel radio again, but now it's just faint, warbling static, and doesn't hurt at all.

"They do not speak of motivation," Gadreel says. "I will report back if I determine any news."

Dean nods. "Angel on angel violence, eh?"

Gadreel frowns. "It is troubling."

"They're lost," Cas says, his expression as pained as Gadreel's. "Looking for direction, and no one's there to give it."

Gadreel thinks to put his hand on Castiel's shoulder in comfort, but abandons the idea. Dean beats him to it, in any case.

"All right, yeah." He nods. "I'll call up Tracy and some other hunters. We'll gank these demon sons' of bitches and be back in time for dinner."

"And if they are among Abaddon's ranks?" Gadreel inquires.

Dean grins. "I'm an equal opportunity ganker."

Gadreel nods. "As you wish. Take care, Dean. I am sorry I cannot provide assistance."

"Just take care of my brother."

Sam would roll his eyes, if he could.

"I shall," the angel answers. Sincerity flows against Sam's skin, steady and pillow-soft. He glances up and meets Cas' eyes, and a pulse of discomfort coils low in Sam's belly.

"They are hunting for you, brother," Gadreel tells him. "You should not leave, either."

"What are they saying?" Dean breaks in.

Sam's fairly certain Gadreel's trying to impress the importance of the situation on them, if he judges by the intensity of the angel's stare. "They desire retribution against Castiel for assisting Metatron."

Cas exhales sharply. "I don't work for Metatron. That should be obvious."

"Nevertheless, you are safe from neither faction. The story they share amongst themselves blames you for the Fall. They claim you are yet Metatron's agent."

"They're wrong! Metatron tricked me and stole my Grace!" Cas blinks, and his entire face goes slack, as if something profound has just occurred to him. He turns a surprised, soft gaze on Gadreel. "That story about me… It isn't true."

Gadreel nods. "I believe you." And after a beat, "And I understand."

For perhaps the first time, the two angels exchange a non-hostile glance, and a low thrum of anxiety Sam hasn't even noticed until now softens.

"You should remain here, Castiel," Gadreel repeats. "You are hunted, which places all those here in danger should your location become known." He pauses. "The chatter among our brothers is so consumed with wrath I fear they would strike first before asking for your story."

Dean shakes his head. "Yeah, no. You're not leaving, Cas. You're gonna keep your ass out of sight, okay?"

Cas looks impossibly tired, impossibly _human_, like a soaked towel wrung out too many times and left to dry. "Yes. That seems wise."

Gadreel opens his mouth to speak, but Cas has already spun on his heels and made for the door. With a gnawing sense of regret, the angel watches him go, sorrow and disappointment throbbing ice-cold through his Grace.

_"He's been different since becoming human,"_ Sam offers quietly._ "I think humanity is overwhelming to him."_

Gadreel stares at the open doorway. _"I am not often present in the world, and I have not lost my Grace. Yet I also find this world highly distressing. I cannot imagine the depth of his suffering."_

Sam tries to send something kind and warm Gadreel's way, something he hopes feels somewhat comforting. _"He'll come around. Don't worry."_

Sam's body shifts—technically, it's Gadreel's right now—and Sam feels the angel reaching out, reacting to Sam's attempt at comfort with an almost fond sweep of Grace. Yet, worry spreads and flows through the angel, stone-heavy and suffocating.

_"I wish to help him, but he cannot stand to share a room with me."  
_  
_"Give him time. He'll see you both are in the same boat."_

For an instant, Sam's back aches, deep, fiery stabs quivering down the center of his shoulder blades. It vanishes nearly as soon as he feels it.

* * *

A few nights later, he's trying to cajole Gadreel out to read a book with him. This time, the angel actively resists.

Sam knows he doesn't feel welcome, and nothing Sam says seems to convince him otherwise. The angel won't peek through his eyes when he's not invited, nor has he rifled through Sam's memories, nor does he snoop on Sam's emotions. It's not that Sam's not grateful for his privacy (he is), but he's just a bit flustered at his inability to convince Gadreel, too, if he's being honest.

No matter how sincere Sam feels about trying to get to know him, it won't amount to a thing if Gadreel doesn't want the same thing. He's at a loss for what else to do, though, and feels so crestfallen it surprises even himself.

It surprises Gadreel, too. He's just aware enough of Sam to taste the sharp edge of his discontent, and it's enough to draw him out.

_"Why are you disappointed?"_ he asks in a truly curious tone.

Sam sighs. "You're here. We're stuck with each other right now. And you're hiding from me."

_"Is that not what you wanted?"_ His voice rings clear, free of cynicism or spite. He's asking in all honesty.

Sam thinks on it for a moment, considering his answer carefully. He can't give Gadreel a white lie or an exaggeration—these things become pointless when possessed. "At first, yes," he admits, "but… it's not what I want now. If you paid attention to what I am feeling, you'd see that."

Confusion flutters in his chest. _"Sam Winchester, I gave you my word I would not eavesdrop. That includes your emotions."_

"Yes, and I believe you," Sam says. "Look, I just want you to hang out in the present with me sometimes, okay? Read a book, watch a movie, chit-chat. I mean, I know you've got to be feeling all alone in there."

_"I do not enjoy the solitude,"_ he admits after a long moment.

Sam holds his breath, feeling the stretch of too-tight muscles in his chest before exhaling harshly. "Then don't choose to be alone."

It's silent for nearly a full minute, but the span of time fills with indecisiveness, worry, want, curiosity, and guilt, all sweeping through Sam as strong as his own emotion might.

_"You will enjoy less privacy. I cannot easily block your thoughts and emotions while present." _

Sam smiles faintly, brushing away a surfacing flutter of self-consciousness. "I know. I'm asking anyway."

Another long moment passes, then the angel unfurls from his hiding place, stretching forward and expanding his Grace until he's inhabiting the body with Sam. He doesn't take control, but Sam can still feel the burning heat of the angel in his core, swirling through his veins and muscles and bones. It's no different than when Gadreel takes control to speak (all of the three times it's happened), yet this time it's a pleasant hum against his skin.

"You'll have less privacy, too, right?" he asks the angel. "Does that bother you?"

Gadreel doesn't take long to answer. _"No, I do not mind. I think I shall find the company pleasing."_

* * *

Sam's so tired he feels dead in his seat, eyes striving to stay open. Gadreel, however, seems no less interested in the book.

Sam's musing on the possibility of bed when the angel makes a soft request. _"Might I keep reading?"_

A low chuckle escapes Sam's lips. "I can't. I need to sleep."

_"You can. I shall remain here and continue, should you find it agreeable."  
_  
Sam blinks slowly, because gravity wants to pull his eyelids shut against his will. He shifts in the stiff, uncushioned chair. "What do you mean? Like, I sleep, and you take over the body?"

_"Indeed. You will rest, and not know the difference. I would ensure you sleep well."_

For a split second, Sam wants to disagree, which might take more vigor than he currently has at his disposal. The thought of Gadreel strolling around in his body without Sam there to supervise feels disconcerting and alarming. But… It's not actually such an awful request. Maybe he just _really_ wants to read. And after all, Sam _is_ the one who talked the angel into coming around more often.

"You promise you won't leave the library? That you're just going to sit here and read?"

_"You have my word."_

"If anything comes up, you'll wake me up?"

_"I shall."_

He sighs, and finally nods. "All right. Just… don't leave, okay?"

Something warm pulses underneath his skin, soothing and drowsy. _"I will not betray your trust."  
_  
He sets the book down on the table, and rubs his face with his hands. At some fuzzy point after that, he falls into a deep, dreamless slumber.

When he awakens, he feels clear and fresh with none of the typical early morning grogginess. Gadreel remains in the exact same seat, with seven fat, ancient books carefully stacked next to him.

As he peruses a dictionary of ancient Greek, Gadreel pauses, noticing Sam's alertness. The angel hums with contentment, swelling against the boundary of Sam's skin. It's perhaps the only time Sam can say he's seen the angel feeling somewhat _cheerful_.

"Good morning, Sam," he says, standing to replace the books in their correct locations. When he finishes, he lowers himself back into the seat. "As promised, I did not leave. I thank you for this. I have enjoyed it."

His Grace retreats, the bright heat dialing down to a faint warmth, and Sam again has control of his body. And he smiles.

This might turn out interesting.


	3. Chapter 3

The weeks pass quickly, Gadreel spending any scrap of time Sam allows him (plus occasionally when he's sleeping) in the bunker's library, catching up on the totality of human knowledge. Both Dean and Gadreel insist Sam isn't well enough for hunting, so he helps Kevin with research for the angel tablets instead.

Sam's back hurts off and on, the pain ephemeral as ever. It ripples and pulls tight between his shoulder blades, as a cramped muscle might. Though each bout remains short-lived, it's happening often enough he's wondering about it.

Whenever Cas strolls into a room, Gadreel looks on like someone starved for hope. He still won't exactly talk to Gadreel, but the tension and anxiety has cooled. Gadreel passes on messages to Sam about the happenings on angel radio—mostly to reassure Cas the others have no idea where he's hiding—and Sam relays them. Cas will mumble a 'thank you'—specifically to Sam—and scurry away as soon as he can.

Sam wonders how long it will take for Cas to trust the other angel. Probably a while.

So Gadreel waits quietly, his desire to speak to and befriend Cas so overwhelming even Sam aches with it. Any apprehension he's previously felt about the angel's presence has dispelled like smoke.

Angel radio, thankfully, no longer makes Sam's ears bleed, though the static annoys in its own way. Cas' name remains a regular occurrence, while Gadreel's name never even comes up. Casualties and grim occurrences from the angelic civil war begin to fill up the chatter.

_"I do not know if this is relevant to us,"_ Gadreel says to Sam one day, _"But the angels are concerned over some of our fallen brothers."_

Sam's halfway through his dinner, the crunch of food ringing in his ears. He swallows a mouthful of greens. "What's going on?"

_"It appears a number of angels have been executed in a manner most peculiar."_

Sam frowns. "Peculiar how?"

_"An angel blade is not utilized, and the vessel survives the angel's death."_

While Sam's all for vessels surviving angelic possession (himself included), nothing about this sounds like good news. "How?"

The mystery puzzles the angel, radiating low and heavy in his gut. _"I do not know. Neither do the others."_

"Is this a massacre, or…?"

_"Not quite. Four are known to have died in such a manner. Two belong to Bartholomew's faction, and two to Malachi's."_

He passes on the information to Dean, Cas, and Kevin. It's worth keeping an eye on.

* * *

The angel manages to surprise Sam often. He thinks he notices him praying one night. He prays the next night, too, and another, and Sam finds himself wondering why Gadreel would still pray after getting thrown into an eternal lockup.

The biggest change, by far, is Gadreel's presence. Sam doesn't have to coax him out. It's weird, but it works. A few scant weeks ago, talking only happened whenever they had need of the angel. It surprises Sam to admit it, but it's a welcome change.

Sometimes his nerves still flare up. The strangeness of carrying around a passenger feels disconcerting at times, with Gadreel's thoughts and feelings jumbling up against his own. Gadreel senses this, and slinks back into the darkness when Sam's feeling antsy. They have an interesting system going on where Gadreel hovers on the edge of Sam's mind, observing quietly to see how Sam's doing before coming out.

Sam has no words to describe his appreciation for this.

Lately, though, Sam feels more curious than nervous. He can't help it. He learns more about this angel every day, this creature who heals and hides but seems to take nothing for himself.

In turn, Gadreel's curiosity about the world he sees through Sam's eyes hums throughout his Grace. The angel manages to endear himself to Sam somewhat, with his questions about textiles and paper cups to his utter confusion on aspects of everyday human life.

Somewhere between the nights spent reading in the bunker's library and the occasionally hilarious questions about rather normal things, Sam realizes what he has long suspected is indeed true: Language, art, human music, the totality of human accomplishment—it's all new and strange to Gadreel. Even his first introduction to the English language only happened the day he met Sam, when he took his prior vessel.

Sure, he knows angel things. He can recite universal constants, do virtually any sort of math, and he's aware of strange, obscure stuff about the universe, the things angels just seem to know. His knowledge of the practical, however, sorely lacks.

The first time Sam sits down to watch a movie with the angel looking on, he has a dozen questions.

"_What is the purpose of this?"_ he asks. Sam can feel intrigue flaring, bright and warm against his skin, as the brilliant colors of CGI dance across the screen.

"It's a movie, Gadreel," Sam responds. "It's entertainment."

The angel stares through Sam's eyes, fascinated. Sam does his best not to glance away from the screen without dropping popcorn everywhere.

_"How do they create these images? It seems rather impossible."_

Sam chuckles. "It's special effects. They do it on computers and stuff."

_"Computers? Such as your laptop?"_

"Yeah, you know," he gestures absently with his hand, "just with more powerful ones."

He's drawing a glare from Dean, who shushes him. "Dude, we're watching a movie here," he says, shaking his head.

When he thinks Sam isn't watching, Cas gives him a knowing look.

Experiencing the world doesn't always go so well. Gadreel despises the basement and the small, windowless storerooms housing books, files, and other items. When the angel regards a bricked-over window warily, a thread of trepidation fluttering through his limbs, Sam connects the dots.

"Does this remind you of…?" Sam lets his voice trail off. He doesn't say 'when you were locked up.' He doesn't have to. The angel probably hears it anyway.

_"Yes,"_ comes the unhappy answer, an anxious rumble that settles too heavy in Sam's skin, bitter in his mouth like the taste of demon blood.

Sam makes a point to try and avoid the rooms. If duty leads him there, he props the door wide open while he's inside, so there's always an escape. The angel's Grace hums steadily throughout his body, warm and grateful.

Sometimes, Gadreel has many questions, and Sam thinks this must be what Dean went through with Cas years earlier. Sam once thought it'd grow tiresome with time, though it never does. Eventually, Gadreel begins telling Sam things in return. Small secrets of fairies, scraps of angel wisdom, even the creation of the universe itself.

He's never spoken of Eden, and Sam never asks. Sam gets it, he really does. It's probably a painful subject for the angel. So when one day Gadreel does mention it, Sam almost chokes on his food.

"_Why do humans consume bovine lactose?" _Gadreel asks as Sam pours milk over his cereal, clearly finding the prospect unpleasant. Sam's somewhere in the middle of explaining the intricacies of how agriculture and beasts of burden led to the foundation of human civilization when Gadreel relates, in turn, how the Garden had been perfect, providing everything humanity needed.

It takes a moment for Sam to remember how to breathe after the angel, aflutter with concern, zaps the food out of his windpipe. Handy thing, that Grace.

He clears his throat, his face flushed. "Sorry, I…" The truth feels too embarrassing to say out loud, so he just tries to continue on as if nothing happened. "Uh, thanks for the rescue." He clears his throat a second time. "So, it was like the ultimate vegan diet?"

If he could see Gadreel, the angel would squint at him in a very Cas-like way. _"Vegan?"_

"Oh, where you eat no animal products. You only consume plants."

"Ah. Then yes."

He says nothing else about the Garden, and Sam doesn't ask. He worries briefly his curiosity is more than evident to the angel, but tries to push it from his mind. The bleed-through of thought and emotion remains something they'll have to deal with until Sam's healed.

Dean and Sam take turns harassing Crowley. Gadreel, not seeing the benefit of negotiating with the King of Hell, threatens to smite the demon to his face. Crowley just snickers, and afterwards starts trying out new nicknames for the angel, much to Gadreel's chagrin.

Another time, when Sam turns on his laptop to do research, Gadreel stares through Sam's eyes in fascination. _"How did this complex technology come to exist?"_ And Sam gives him a brief history of computers. He ends up using the Internet to fill in the gaps he doesn't know, so he explains the basics of the Internet while he's at it, too.

Gadreel then compares it to angel radio, and explains how latent energy in the fabric of the universe interacts with angelic Grace, allowing for communication even over vast distances.

One day, Sam peeks over Kevin's shoulder as the boy rants over some obscure bit of Enochian he can't decipher. Gadreel quickly relays the right translation to Sam, who gives it to Kevin.

After he writes it down, he gazes up at Sam, wide-eyed and just a bit excited. "Hey, what else does he know?"

Kevin remains the only one who hasn't thrown some sort of a fit about the Gadreel's presence. He probably doesn't trust the angel completely, but he says it's 'insurance' having an angel around so long as Crowley's going to stay locked up in the basement.

Gadreel stirs in interest as Sam examines the angel tablet, and his lips curl upwards. He shrugs at Kevin, and points at his head. "Ask Gadreel. Maybe he knows something you need."

Sam sits as Kevin asks question after question. Sometimes Gadreel answers and sometimes Sam does, but before anyone knows it, two hours flitter away on conversation. The angel doesn't seem to mind the prophet's endless inquiry one bit.

When they're done, and Sam trots away, Gadreel's voice quietly whispers to him. _"You see, Sam? I can be useful."_

The statement seems to come out of nowhere, and Sam frowns in the empty hall. The angel has already retreated into his hiding spot, however, so there's no opportunity to ask him what he meant.

Sam thinks about it for a while, and shakes his head. Gadreel said it so honestly, so hopefully. He's not sure why, but it kind of makes Sam feel a little sorry for him.

* * *

Cas lets an exasperated sigh float in the air. "They're not doing well, Dean. I don't understand. I did everything the webpage told me to."

Sam glances over his shoulder to the distant corner of the room, where Castiel and Dean hover over a few potted plants underneath a grow light. He turns back to the boxes, thumbing through old, crumbly paper to find the one he needs, only somewhat listening.

"I don't know what to tell ya, Cas," Dean says.

"I believe they need more heat," Cas says after a pause. "Perhaps I can set up a greenhouse."

"No way, man. It's too cold outside." Dean pauses, thoughtful. "Maybe in Spring, if this angel-on-angel violence chills by then."

Cas sighs dramatically. "I'm warded, Dean."

"Hey, didn't stop that reaper chick from finding you."

Sam finds the correct label for his box, and stands, gliding around the shelf to find it. It's three boxes back, and even with Sam's height, he has to step on his tip-toes to reach it. He grapples at the first box and sets it aside, stretching comically to reach the second.

Cas makes a sound akin to a groan, a habit he's only picked up since becoming human. "I know. They're going to die, and it'll be my fault." He sounds positively morose.

"Are you really getting upset over flowers, Cas?" Dean asks. A moment later, "All right, all right. I'm here, right? What should I do?"

Sam hisses with effort, but he can't quite reach the second box and nothing presents itself as handy to step on. "Hey, Gadreel," he grunts under his breath. "You couldn't use your Grace and bring those boxes closer, could you?"

The angel doesn't respond.

"I don't think there's anything we can do," Cas continues. "Just water them, give them plenty of light, and plant food."

Sam blinks, tuning out the other conversation. "Gadreel? You there?"

The angel is, in fact, present. Sam can feel that much by the warmth humming steadily in his chest. His mind simply isn't anywhere focused on Sam.

"Gadreel," he whispers again, still groping hopelessly for the box. "Gadreel!"

At the too-loud grunt, the angel's attention snaps to Sam, though not without a startled flutter of Grace. Even Dean and Cas spin to face in his direction, their faces blocked by a row of boxes.

"Everything okay, man?" Dean calls.

"Yeah, sorry, didn't mean to be so loud," he replies with some embarrassment. He vaguely sees Dean shrug at Cas, and the two leave the room.

_"I am sorry, Sam,"_ Gadreel says. _"I was listening to their conversation. What do you need?"  
_  
Sam makes another comical stretch for the second box, and fails. "I need the third box back," he says, his voice coming out as a groan, "but I can't reach it."

Something between amusement and annoyance skitters down his spine, making him squirm from the coldness of it. His palm tingles, and the box he needs slides flush against his hand with more force than strictly necessary. Sam just chuckles, easily setting it upon the ground.

"Thanks. Sorry to _bother_ you." He smiles, though, because the whole thing strikes Sam as funny, for some reason. The angel rumbles softly with similar amusement, so Sam brushes the whole thing aside.

He lugs the oversized boxes he doesn't need back into place, and lumbers around the shelf, setting his box on the table.

_"It would be so simple to fix,"_ the angel says, his voice somewhat distant.

"Hm?" Sam hums, flipping through a dusty manila folder. "What would?"

_"Castiel's plants."_

Sam halts in his reading, thumb brushing against time-worn paper to mark his spot. The flowers sit nearby, so he sets the folder down, a piece of string left behind to mark his place.

The flowers _do_ look awful. Castiel may love these things, but he doesn't have a green thumb.

Sam feels Gadreel observing the plants intently, his thoughts incomprehensible to Sam. "What're you thinking about?" he asks.

He can feel the angel stretching, a soundless request for Sam to reach out and touch one of the plants. _"This stem here, it…"_

But Sam has no idea what Gadreel wants him to do, so before he even thinks it through, he gives the angel permission to use his body. Normally, he's asleep if the angel takes any sort of control—though, that's with his permission, too.

There's a faint flare of Grace, but nothing seems to change. It's only when his hand stretches towards the plant without his consent he realizes Gadreel has only taken control of his arm.

Huh. Can angels even do that? They can apparently do that.

A warm rush of Gadreel's amusement unfurls within him, a soft noise lilting gently between his ears.

Sam feels his fingertips brushing against vellum leaves, plucking a few out, and repositioning the stems. When his arm moves to the next plant over, Sam remembers the angel can't actually see what he's doing unless Sam moves his head, too, and so he lets his eyes settle upon the next flowering plant. It's more than odd, feeling the pull of his arm and trying to sync his eyes to the angel's concentration, though somehow it works. The two fall into a strangely satisfying pattern of coordinating Sam's body in tandem for the few minutes it takes the angel to finish his work.

The angel retreats, and Sam experimentally flexes his hand. The plants don't actually appear any different to Sam's eyes, but a feeling of distinct accomplishment thrums inside of him. The angel glows with more than a little satisfaction.

_"With a small amount of proper trimming and the procurement of substances not found in this artificial garden, these plants will grow soundly, even absent from their native, tropical environment,"_ he tells Sam._"Castiel will be none the wiser to my interference."_

Sam's about to ask him how he knows so much about flowers when he knows almost nothing about anything else, but stops short. Eden. Right. Maybe he did a stint as an angelic botanist. Is that even a thing?

If the angel hears him, he says nothing. A low, passing ache twinges along his upper back. Damn, it's starting to worry him. Maybe he overdid it with the boxes?

"Why not just tell Cas?" Sam asks, setting aside the phantom pain for now.

Gadreel remains silent for a long while. "_I believe he would not care for my assistance. He would rather his plants die."  
_  
Something heavy and uncomfortable settles in his stomach, because this has a troublesome parallel. "It's his choice, right? Ask him. If he doesn't want you saving his plants, then you shouldn't."

Gadreel considers this, the deeper meaning not lost upon him. After a long moment, something almost timid pulses under his skin. _"Even to save them from death?"_ he asks quietly.

Sam ruminates on his reply a moment. "He deserves a chance to say 'yes' to your assistance. Or 'no,' if he chooses."

Gadreel contemplates this for a long moment, distress thrumming throughout his Grace, worry electric against his skin. And Sam knows the exact moment Gadreel fully _understands_, and feels the angel recoil in his skin as if he'd been struck.

_"Indeed, he does,"_ Gadreel tells Sam, his voice angel slinks down inside of him, far deeper than he's been in weeks, ever since Sam encouraged him to come out. His brief moment of pleasure in the face of the flowers has evaporated, lost and forgotten.

_"I did not wish to see him in distress when I could give aid."_

Sam wets his lips. He thinks about pushing it further, but thinks he's already made his point. So he lets it go.

The next day, Sam makes purposely places himself in the backroom when Cas tends to his flowers. He's doing something wrong again, because Sam feels Gadreel's irritation rippling across his skin as he watches. It's sad, really, the way the angel itches to help but won't just come out and ask. So Sam tugs at him gently, encouraging him to go _ask already_.

"Brother," Gadreel says once he emerges, and Cas immediately halts, giving him a wary look. "You groom the wrong branches. Allow me to show you?" He reaches out, placing hesitant fingertips on the trimmers in his hand.

Sam worries for a moment, because his pointed, stormy blue glare suggests it's all about to go bad. Cas glances back at the flowers and breathes deeply, rubbing at his face. A dark smudge of dirt remains behind, painting a uneven streak across his cheekbone. When he looks back to Gadreel, his eyes soften, and he nods, allowing the other angel to take the trimmers from his hands.

Gadreel spends several minutes explaining how Cas needs to treat each plant, flowering and otherwise. Sam passively listens. He hears Gadreel tell Cas he's chosen particularly difficult tropical plants to care for, at least by human standards. When he's finished, he gives Cas a faint smile, and retreats back within Sam.

"Well, uh…" Sam takes a step backward. "Good luck with the gardening?" He moves to grab his stuff and leave.

"Gadreel," Cas calls out, back facing Sam, "thank you." His tone sounds forced, but not necessarily unkind.

As Sam walks away, he hears Gadreel's voice call to him again: _"See? I can be useful, Sam."_

* * *

One day, Dean blasts rock music through the entire bunker, echoing loud enough Kevin yells about it. Dean just grunts and turns it up, refusing to entertain anyone's objections.

"Just get some headphones already!" the prophet shouts, but Dean doesn't answer over the blare of Metallica.

When in another room, with the volume less piercing, Gadreel's curiosity spreads whisper-soft, but insistent. _"Why does Dean listen to music at this volume? A sustained duration will prove harmful to his hearing."_

Sam doesn't actually know what's got Dean in a pissy mood, so he shrugs. The angel hovers near the edge of his mind, requesting permission, pressing gently to come forward. It's another one of those times Sam doesn't see the harm in it, so he lets him. It's not like he comes out often, or anything.

Gadreel turns to face Kevin. "Why is Dean, as Sam says, in a 'pissy mood?'"

Kevin's face screws up into quite a comical expression, ending with the kid roaring with laughter. Sam thinks it's been too long since the kid laughed so richly.

"Oh, that?" Kevin gestures down the hallway between chuckles. "Dean's having _boyfriend_ problems. That means we all suffer until he gets over it."

This doesn't clarify anything for Gadreel, who stares down the hall uncomprehending. Sam does the mental equivalent of chuckling, and he feels the angel's displeasure settling low in his bones. He quickly reassures Gadreel it's _Dean_ he's laughing at, not the angel, and the unpleasantness clears a bit.

Seeing Gadreel's confusion, Kevin attempts to clarify. "Him and Cas, you know?"

"Know what?"

The kid snorts, and it takes a moment before he catches his breath. "I know you're an angel and all, but you've got to know about romance, right? When two people… you know?"

Gadreel stares back down the hallway, down to the room where Dean holes up, and Sam can practically hear the gears turning in the angel's mind. Gadreel recalls how absolutely devastated Dean had felt when Cas died at the Reaper's hand. He remembers Dean adamantly insisting Castiel stay at the bunker, in safety.

"Oh," Gadreel finally says. _"Oh."_ His head tilts, and Sam feels his lips draw up slightly, amusement flaring throughout his Grace. He turns back to Kevin. "Dean and Castiel are in love?"

Kevin just smiles warmly, and Sam can feel Gadreel glow just a little from the kind gesture. Kevin's been nicer to Gadreel than Dean and Cas both, and Gadreel doesn't feel awkward or uncomfortable in his presence as he does in virtually everyone else's (including Sam's, sometimes).

Though, Sam wouldn't put it past Dean and Kevin to have some kind of angel spell cooked up behind his back, just in case. 'Paranoid' remains an essential part of a hunter's identity.

"Yeah," Kevin says, chuckling again and crossing his arms, "Dean's kicking off a fit of heterosexual panic. If we go looking, I'm sure we'll find Cas in the kitchen, drowning his sorrow in ice cream, because Dean can't get over himself."

Any mirth Sam has goes still. It's kind of sad, really. Dean's having an overblown bout of machismo, while Castiel doesn't know what to say or how to handle it—or how to handle his own humanity, for that matter.

The angel furrows his brow. _"Heterosexual panic?"_ he asks Sam quietly.

_"Yeah, Dean's freaking out because he's got a thing for Cas. So he's probably about to go out and hook up with a woman to prove his straightness to himself."_

The words float about in the angel's head, swirling in a dizzy mass of concentration. _"Heterosexual?"_ After a beat, _"Hetero, from the Greek heteros, a prefix meaning 'different or another.' Why is this prefix utilized? It seems evident if one engages in sexual activity, another individual will be involved."_

Any other time, Sam would spare a moment of awe (and envy) over the angel's recently acquired, near-encyclopedic knowledge of ancient language. Explaining human constructs of sexuality, however, has his stomach done up in a knot. For the moment, he skips right over the detail that one can partake in sexual activity all alone, because given Gadreel's curious nature, it will probably lead to questions Sam _doesn't_ want to answer.

_"You really don't know about sexuality?"_

_"Of course I know of sexuality. Eve and Adam expressed their love in such a manner."_

When Sam thinks about it, it's not so surprising he doesn't know the finer points and distinctions. Apparently, he hasn't read any books on _that_ just yet.

_"Heterosexuality—it's also called being straight—is when people want sex with someone of the opposite gender. Homosexuality is when two people of the same gender want sex with each other. There's also bisexuality, which is when you're attracted to both genders."_

Gadreel mulls over it. _"Why not simply refer to it as sexuality? Why does gender matter when one is in love?"_

He makes an outstanding point, one Sam personally wishes everyone held.

"_There's a stigma around same-sex relationships. It's not one of humanity's shining qualities, but… yeah. It's changing slowly, but not fast enough." _He pauses. _"It's terrible and it keeps people apart, sometimes. People fall in love, but the stigma and cultural rules, you knowt… Sometimes, people don't ever get over those things."_

Gadreel remains silent a long moment, a cold, rattling ache expanding in his gut. "That is… distressing to hear," he says aloud. "If two individuals share love, such a thing should not keep them apart."

"Yeah, isn't it sad?" Kevin answers, oblivious to the fact Gadreel wasn't talking to him. "Sam and I keep hoping they'll figure it out, but so far, no luck."

"I do not understand," Gadreel says, his attention turning to the boy. "Castiel is not male." He gazes at Kevin as if his intense stare could make the world understand him. "Gender is a human construction angels do not possess."

Kevin snorts. "Yeah, but your _vessels_ do." He makes a gesture at Gadreel. "I mean, look at you. You showed up on Earth, walked around in a guy, and went to the hospital, where you ended up with Sam, another guy."

Sam listens as the angel thinks it through. "I had not realized." He tilts his head. "But I am not male, either."

"Humans don't think that way," Kevin says. "As long as you're possessing a dude, most humans are going to think of you as a dude."

After a moment, Gadreel looks away and nods once. "I see. Thank you, Kevin Tran."

The angel doesn't relinquish control, and instead stares down the hallway as if committing it to memory. His thoughts swirl like a dust storm, unfathomable and more vast than the prairie outside.

_"Thank you, Sam. I believe I can provide assistance with this situation, now_."

Sam would sigh if he could. _"Good luck with that,"_ he responds dryly.

Nervousness coils against Sam's ribs as Gadreel steels himself and marches down the hallway, reentering the room with Dean. He doesn't acknowledge him at first, if he even sees him. Gadreel walks over to the music player, and when he can't quite determine how to cut if off, he simply motions with his hand and uses his Grace. The music dies instantly.

A chair clatters to the floor behind him. He turns just in time to see Dean leaping to his feet, jaw set and teeth clenched. "Dude, what the hell?"

"You act as a fool, Dean Winchester," Gadreel tells him.

Dean's face drains of color instantly. "Zeke?"

"Castiel is an angel, not a man," he continues. "Despite his powerless state, you should remember he is not human."

"Uh…"

"He is neither male nor female. You should not allow narrow, human constructs of gender impede your love for my brother."

Dean stares dumbly, his mouth opening and closing a few times. "I told you before, man, I don't really do the whole 'love' thing."

Gadreel regards him sourly. "No, you do not _say_ 'love.' To refrain from use of the word does not mean you are not, in fact, expressing love."

There's a long, awkward moment of silence as Dean seems for all the world speechless.

"Love is precious," he tells Dean. "It is a honor for each of you to love the other." He pauses. "I believe a human might say, 'Get over yourself, already.'"

Gadreel lifts his hand, and the blaring music resumes. The angel retreats all at once within Sam, quick as a flash. Dean sees this changing of the guard, and Sam can see his brother mouthing his name, sound lost in the music.

Sam grips the table, white-knuckled, and howls, doubled over, in hysterical laughter. It _would_ take an angel with no use for human hang-ups to finally strike Dean speechless. For all of his and Kevin's subtle commenting, there's something to be said for such directness.

"Dude, what are you waiting for?" Sam sputters between bouts of chuckling. "Go talk it out with Cas!" He stands, holding his aching stomach, and leaves the room, still laughing like he's lost his mind.

A few minutes later, the music stops. Sam peeks around the corner and sees Dean and Cas sitting on the couch, staring at each other intently and inching closer every second. They're talking, but too far away for Sam to hear.

He has to stifle a satisfied hum, because they might get their act together. He turns away and leaves before he accidentally sees something he doesn't want to.

"Good job, Gadreel," he tells the angel.

Sam can _feel_ Gadreel's smile, soft threads of Grace sweeping through him, warm as a roaring fireplace . A slight prickle of pride tickles at his skin, too, as he seems to realize he's done a Very Important Thing.

Without even thinking, Sam lets his mind brush against the warmth of the angel's Grace. It's like sinking down into a vibrant thunderstorm brimming full of life itself.

For just for a moment, Sam lingers, and Gadreel doesn't seem to mind at all.

* * *

Sam lies on his back, rubbing hands over his eyes. His body feels worn and his mind frayed, exhaustion aching through weary muscles. A headache dully throbs behind his eyes, somehow worse now he's attempting to sleep.

Gadreel stirs at the influx of pain, concern humming low against his spine. Considering his dire health and Gadreel's weakened state, it all seems rather silly. It's almost as if the angel worries about Sam's petty comforts.

Sam thinks maybe he does, though he's not sure why.

"I'm fine," he says abortively. Reflexively.

Gadreel does not exactly ignore him, but he frets. Sam feels him doing a quick check of his entire body, his attention flittering everywhere in a cloudy muddle that carries a shade of worry. When he settles upon the headache, he doesn't soothe it away immediately, but he does draw Sam's attention to it, expectantly.

It makes Sam smile faintly. He'd tell Gadreel he doesn't need every tiny problem fixed because it's sort of embarrassing, but this angel has little use for human hang-ups. So he just shrugs his consent.

"As long as you're already there," he says.

The angel whispers something unintelligible, maybe Enochian, and Sam feels his headache melt away in a cooling, quiet rush, blessed relief in its wake.

"Mmm. Thanks." He wiggles on the bed, letting his body sink deeper into the mattress. Everything feels better, now, even his tired muscles and threadbare nerves.

"_It would be simpler if you informed me of these issues,"_ Gadreel chides softly. _"When I am not present in the outside world with you, I cannot sense your discomfort unless it is dire."_

Sam throws an arm over his eyes, a huff of air escaping his lips. "Yeah, I'm sure you love being stuck in there, just to have me bother you with petty stuff." He can't keep the sharp, sarcastic edge out of his voice. "Like you don't have any healing of your own to do."

Gadreel remains silent a long moment. _"Your discomfort is not a petty matter."_

Sam's breath halts, his eyes snapping open. An unspoken 'to me' hangs in the space at the end of Gadreel's words, and Sam has no idea what to even say to that. Maybe he's just imagining it. So he just goes another direction entirely.

"Gadreel, why…." he hesitates, inhaling deeply. "Why did you pretend to be Ezekiel? Dean and I, we wouldn't have known any different if you'd used your real name."

The angel sighs quietly, a thrum of discontent seeping throughout his Grace. _"I was hiding. It seemed a wise decision, at the time."  
_  
"Yeah, but what were you going to do when you ran into the real Ezekiel?" Sam frowns. "Cas _knows_ him."

Gadreel remains silent so long a time, Sam thinks he might not answer. Finally, flushed embarrassment pools in his gut. _"I did not think that far ahead."  
_  
Sam's lips quirk. "You have a tendency not to think things through, don't you? Like earlier, when you just marched up to Dean and told him what you thought?"

A flood of sourness strikes him ice sharp, causing Sam to grin. Despite sharing a body, they can still misunderstand each other.

"I'm not making fun of you!" Sam defends. "I promise! I'm just saying, it was kind of a bad plan."

He worries for a moment he might have finally offended Gadreel, but amusement, bright and tingling, slowly warms his entire body. _"I suppose it was."_

* * *

The next night, Gadreel asks Sam if he might use his body for a moment to pray. It's a simple enough request, so Sam acquiesces.

A moment later, his body stands from the edge of the bed, spine rigid and posture immaculate.

"Thank you, Sam," Gadreel says, as he slowly drops to his knees, clasping his hands together.

Sam sort of fidgets within his own skin, uncomfortable. He shouldn't stick around for this. He supposes he could hightail it to the library-shaped headspace they share. He hasn't visited it since learning about Gadreel, after all.

"_You want me to wander off, or…?"_

Gadreel lifts his head, eyes opening a sliver. "That is unnecessary," he says. "Perhaps you would care to join me?"

Sam doesn't mean to recoil from the suggestion, but he does all the same, and it doesn't go unnoticed. He reels it in, though, because he's not going to rain on Gadreel's parade if the angel wants to pray.

He'd stopped praying years ago, after Death had freed his soul from Lucifer's Cage. God didn't seem to care anymore, and those who might hear his prayers were probably the sort who'd come and kill him. No, he'd prayed unfailingly his entire life, but no more. It had never done him any good at all.

_"I'll pass. But knock yourself out."_

The angel radiates gratitude all the same, and closes his eyes again.

"Father, it is I, Gadreel, Your son." He shifts on his legs a bit. "My words lift up to You from the lips of my vessel, Sam Winchester, for whom I pray for safety and health. I ask also for the health of his brother, Dean Winchester, the prophet Kevin Tran, and the angel Castiel." He pauses a moment, a somber mood overtaking him. "I pray I may have the opportunity to earn their trust and friendship in the future, despite my many shortcomings."

Sam _really_ feels he shouldn't listen in, now. It's private and more than a little depressing. And yet, Gadreel did invite him to pray with him, and while Sam can't bring himself to pray, he can't bring himself to look away while Gadreel does, either.

"I thank You for Your many blessings upon me, Father," he says without a shred of irony. "I thank You for surviving the Fall. I thank You for the vessel I inhabit, for his tolerance and kind spirit, and ask that I may use my Grace wisely to heal Sam until he is recovered."

Sam wonders if anyone has ever given thanks for his own existence in the world before. Dean probably has, or would, if he prayed to anyone other than Cas.

Gadreel pauses, glancing up. Sam wonders if he's thinking too loud, if he's interrupting the angel. But he just closes his eyes again.

"As always, I submit to Your will, Father, whatever it may be. Please protect those who harbor me and show me compassion, and do not punish them for their goodness towards me, your weak son." He wets his lips, and Sam can feel a million terrible, agonizing thoughts echoing in the angel's Grace. "Amen."

Gadreel stands, gracefully extending to Sam's full height.

Sam watches in astonishment. After everything Gadreel has experienced, he thanks God for scraps and minutia, asks for the well-being of others, but not himself. He can't believe he's praying to the guy who locked him up.

"He is my Father, Sam Winchester, and I am an angel," Gadreel says plainly, as if it explains everything.

In a single fluid motion, he sinks down on the edge of the bed, and returns the body to Sam. Sam's about to disagree with the angel, to ask him more questions, but Gadreel curls up somewhere faint and distant before he can. Sam takes it as a signal he doesn't want to discuss it.

The dull throb in his back again spikes again, clenching between his shoulder blades in a spasm. As before, it disappears almost as soon as it hits.

Every night after, the angel asks for permission to use Sam's body to pray. And Gadreel prays with Sam's voice and Sam's hands, down on Sam's knees, and it's always the same prayer, over and over again. After a while, it becomes clear to Sam that Gadreel seems to think being allowed to enjoy anything at all is a blessing from God. He stops watching him pray entirely after that.

The pain isn't his, but it hurts all the same.

* * *

_AN: I am fully aware there are more than three sexualities, and that gender and biological sex are not the same thing. However, I've written the section the way I did for two reasons. One, Gadreel is honestly not going to know the difference until someone explains it to him (he's been locked up for most of time). Two, Sam himself, while I like to think he may have an awareness of different sexualities beyond the standard gender binary, probably hasn't had time to think about it too deeply (what with the saving of the world multiple times these past few years and all)._


	4. Chapter 4

Dean spends an inordinate amount of time in the garage, teaching Cas about maintaining the Impala—though it's questionable whether they're actually working.

Though the instincts of a protective sibling flutter through Gadreel's Grace occasionally, he remains hopeful (and curious) about the progression of their relationship. Sam's thrilled, sure, but he has zero desire to accidentally walk in on his brother in the middle of sex.

In the interim, Gadreel tends to Castiel's flowers—with permission—and coaxes them back to vibrant life. Once dull and limp, now the blossoms shine bright and vivid under the angel's attention. His Grace hums with satisfaction at the sight of it.

It makes Sam wonder about the Garden, though he doesn't ask. It's Sam's little rule for himself. No matter how curious he is, he won't ask about something with potential for raw, unfiltered pain. If Gadreel wants to talk about it, he'll talk. He's given Sam a scrap before, so there's a chance he might again.

Kevin barely sleeps. He spends so long working on the angel tablet one day he snaps, repeating "falafel" over and over again, shivering like a twig in the wind, drawing in on himself even as he sweats.

Cas comes running down the hallway to fetch Sam and Gadreel. Seized with alarm, Sam hands the reigns over to Gadreel, who attempts to soothe Kevin's pain. In the midst of the boy's babbling, as Dean and Cas look on worriedly, Gadreel presses his palm gently against Kevin's forehead. Closing his eyes, he reaches out with Grace, sweeping feather-light within the prophet's bruised mind.

Kevin stops his fevered trembling, his voice growing still. He slumps over into Gadreel's arms, head crashing on his shoulder, only half-conscious. The motion surprises the angel, but he clasps an arm around the boy's shoulders in a steady grip.

"Th'nks, Ga'r'el," Kevin slurs, voice muffled in the fabric of Sam's shirt. A few moments later, there's wetness seeping through as the boy cries in exhaustion. "I want it to be over. I just have to keep working. It'll be over, then."

Kevin probably has no idea what he's even saying. Gadreel's hand flattens against his back, and all at once, a deep, stabbing burn tears through his Grace like a white-hot blade. A flicker of something flashes before Sam's mind, half-remembered and lonelier than the most barren desert, before the angel pulls Kevin closer, rubbing a single, gentle circle on his back.

"I know how you feel, Kevin Tran," he whispers. "For now, you must rest. I can offer you sleep free of your nightmares, if you wish."

Kevin makes a noise, something unintelligible even to the angel, and nods weakly, head bobbing like his spine might snap. The hand resting on his back slides up to palm the back of his head, and another whisper-smooth press of Grace bleeds into Kevin's body.

The boy goes slack, limbs loose and relaxed as Gadreel holds him, still cupping the back of his head. Something miserable, a horrid sort of déjà vu, fluctuates throughout Sam's body again. It's stilted, as though Gadreel pointedly tries not to remember it.

"He all right?" Dean asks, the fine lines of his face creased, eyes solemn.

"For the moment, yes," Gadreel answers him. "I regret I am too weakened to heal him entirely, but I have placed him in a deep slumber." He glances briefly at Cas before turning back to Dean. "He requires more substantial rest, however."

Sam passes on a message, which Gadreel relays. "Sam says 'Kevin needs a vacation.'"

Dean nods thoughtfully. "I promised the little nerd some time up in Branson, Missouri. If he's good enough when he wakes up, I'll take him up for some alone time."

Though the angel shows nothing but a calm and steady exterior, Sam can feel how much healing Kevin has weakened him. His Grace flutters, not unlike a warped candle nearly out of wick to burn. Sam feels no pain, but he has the distinct impression Gadreel does.

Gadreel slides an arm under Kevin's legs, repositions his torso against his own, and lifts him with ease. Secondhand, it feels bizarre to Sam, as though he holds the weight of a pillow, not a man.

"What's wrong with your Grace?" Cas asks, perhaps perceptive of some visual clue Sam doesn't notice.

Gadreel blinks, because even now Cas doesn't usually talk to him if he can avoid it.

"I am barely at half strength," he answers. "Every time I use my power, it weakens me further, and I am able to do less." He glides down the hallway with Kevin in his arms, weaving his way to the bedrooms as the other men follow.

Dean frowns, the tired lines of his face betraying his worry. "What about Sam? If you're so weak, is he—."

"I will not allow harm to come to Sam. I promise you this, Dean." Something fierce and almost protective briefly flares along the angel's Grace, so swift Sam thinks he might have imagined it.

"If you continue to exhaust your Grace, you'll harm yourself," Cas says, a thread of concern in his voice.

"Do not worry," Gadreel replies as he enters Kevin's bedroom, setting the boy down upon the sheets with extreme care, as if he'll shatter like glass. "Even damaged, my Grace can sustain Sam."

Sam wants to cross his arms, to frown, but his body doesn't listen. _"I think you missed the point, Gadreel. They're worried about you."  
_  
The angel exhales a soft, harsh huff of air as he tucks a thick blanket snug around Kevin. _"I doubt that."_ He leaves the room, flips off the light switch, and pulls the door shut. It creaks, releasing an unwelcome, atrocious noise in the quiet.

As they stand in the hallway, Dean's expression has grown more severe. "Yeah, but Zeke—Gad, I'm gonna call you Gad, okay?—what about you? Are you gonna be all right?"

Surprise pulses through Sam's bones. _"Told ya,"_ he teases gently.

Gadreel doesn't answer Sam, not directly. Something tired and icy sweeps through him, and Sam doesn't know how, but he _knows_ it has nothing to do with the angel's mood. The angel's breathing quickens, shallow and rapid; never mind the weirdness of Gadreel needing to breathe at all, anyway. His Grace feels dim and wafer-brittle to Sam, stretching thin through his limbs.

"What about me?" Gadreel answers Dean. "I came to answer your prayer, Dean Winchester. I offered you and your brother my strength." He pauses, breathing deep. "I regret I have so little of it to offer at the moment, but it belongs to you and Sam, nonetheless."

Dean's expression sours more, if possible. "I know. I believe you already, man. Just take care of yourself too, okay?"

Gadreel thanks Dean with a cold, removed sort of politeness.

_"Come on, Gadreel. He means it,"_ Sam tells him.

_"Sam, he only says this because if I falter, you will die."  
_  
Sam's attempts to convince him otherwise fall on metaphorical deaf ears. And beyond the pain, something _else_ troubles the angel. Something ancient and weighty and dark that leaves Gadreel curling up inside, away from prying eyes.

A single word emerges from this cloudy hollow: Abner.

Sam's pretty sure he wasn't meant to hear that.

Sam doesn't mean to pry. He really doesn't. And it's not exactly prying when he's tuned into Gadreel's unfiltered thoughts whenever the angel comes out. Whatever he's feeling, it hurts, and far beyond the pain of exhausting his Grace.

Sam reaches out gently, the desire to soothe this pain overpowering. Gadreel has never mentioned the name 'Abner' before, and from the roiling sorrow the angel can't hide, the topic cannot hold pleasant memories.

Gadreel pulls away from Sam's reach, and burrows deeper.

The reaction surprises Sam—though, given the angel's prior inclination to hide, it shouldn't—so Sam pushes no further. Gadreel gives him his privacy, after all, so it's the least Sam can do to give the same in return.

_"If you want or need to talk about anything, I'm here,"_ Sam offers.

Gadreel says nothing, but a faint hum of acknowledgement flutters against Sam's ribcage.

* * *

Dean takes Kevin on a vacation to Missouri for a few days, proudly proclaiming he's all set with pay-per-view, food, and music. Gadreel does not see how it all adds up to a pleasant respite, but Sam assures him Kevin's a teenager, so he'll have a great time with his privacy, porn, and junk food. The angel frowns, but takes his word for it.

Sam comes up with an idea to try and convert a console into an angel detector of sorts. He traces wires through the floor and finds an old, colossal computer in the basement. It's not their area of expertise, so they call an expert.

Gadreel's anxiety over a guest dropping in runs hot enough to make Sam sweat, but he does his best to assure the angel Charlie Bradbury poses no threat. In fact, she's damn awesome and will probably be over the moon to meet a real angel. Yet, the angel's nerves don't settle in the slightest until she actually arrives at the bunker.

Gadreel spends a lot of his time figuratively wringing his hands. Sam doesn't blame him, really, but there's so much bleed-through it gets uncomfortable. It's something he thinks he'll have to work on with Gadreel, eventually.

Gadreel remains quiet as he simply observes Sam's and Dean's interactions with the woman. As Sam had promised, she's all sunshine and brilliance, and the angel's worry melts away. Maybe the fact Sam adores Charlie influences him, too.

Charlie talks about losing her job, LARPing and hunting. While Sam and Dean question her endlessly on her new role as a hunter, Sam feels Gadreel's intrigue of this small, fascinating woman grow. It's not long before he's asking Sam questions, wanting to know more about her.

Sam gets a bit tongue-tied talking to both Charlie and Gadreel, as he hasn't yet mastered the art of holding two opposing conversations at the same time. In way of compromise, he summons memories for the angel to peruse, who takes a moment to process them. Gadreel quiets, at least until Charlie mentions Becky.

Sam stutters and cringes, and feels his face burning hot. Anticipating questions, he throws more memories at the angel before he even gets the chance to ask. Not like he can keep much of a secret right now, anyway.

Unlike virtually everyone else who hears the story, Gadreel isn't amused in the least, which relieves Sam, in a way. In fact, the angel smolders quietly about it for a few minutes, as if personally affronted.

Hah. Gadreel, the angelic sentry, ready to defend Sam Winchester's honor. He's probably the only one.

It's quiet for a while as Charlie ducks under the console, humming a tune.

_"Sam,"_ Gadreel's voice softly calls to him. _"You said 'yes' to Becky."_ He pauses. _"But it was under the compulsion of magic."  
_  
Sam sighs. "_Yeah. I said 'I do.' We got married. We got an annulment. I lost two weeks of time and woke up tied to a bed, confused as hell, and had to immediately jump into talking her into not drugging me again." _He shakes his head._ "I like to pretend the whole thing didn't happen."  
_  
Gadreel mulls on it a while. _"Why did you worry I'd find it amusing? To have someone betray your trust is not humorous."_

He shrugs. _"Most people laugh when they hear the story."  
_  
The angel considers it all. _"So you have been deprived of your free will before." _He pauses a beat. _"Tricked into a 'yes,' for example."_

_"Yeah."_

"Like what I did. I did not trust you in the beginning, and also deprived you of a choice."

Sam shakes his head. _"You're not like Becky, Gadreel."_

"I fail to see the difference."

Sam holds the air in his lungs a moment. _"You didn't do it for bad reasons. You were trying to help. Becky was being selfish."  
_  
A hum of distress itches across his skin. _"I believe it matters only that I did it."_

Sam stands quietly, watching as Dean leans over the ancient computer, chatting with Charlie. _"You know, Gadreel,"_ he says, _"I've made bad mistakes before trying to do the right thing. I drank demon blood to get strong enough to kill Lilith—she was a demon, Lucifer's first. I trusted another demon to help me find a way to get my brother out of Hell, and she led me by the nose until I accidentally started the Apocalypse. People died because of me." _He leans against the wall and sighs. _"I still have demon blood in me, probably_." The edges of his lips quirk, though it's bitter. _"It was all to make me a good vessel for Lucifer." _He pauses._ "You did know that, right? That I'm Lucifer's true vessel?"_

He expects the angel to recoil, to express disgust. Gadreel does neither_. "I suspected. I knew you were once his vessel, but not that you were his true vessel."_ He pauses a moment. _"It explains why I am more powerful in your body."_

Sam sighs. _"That was supposed to be my high calling in life: to be a suit for an archangel."_

Somewhere deep inside, Sam feels Gadreel sigh. "_Sam, the content of your blood does not constitute who you are any more than the rest of your body. Being a vessel—even Lucifer's—says nothing about your character. It means _only_ that your body is capable of housing the power of an archangel." _He pauses a beat._ "Your soul is that which matters, and rest assured, you have the brightest, purest soul I have ever seen."_

Sam's heart nearly stops. He can't even reply. What could he even say to that?

_"And if the demon blood troubles you, I can eliminate it before I leave. The amount is minuscule."_

_"I… You would do that?"_

Warmth pulses through his Grace, unfurling inside his ribcage. _"Indeed. It will be simple."_

_"But why?"_

_"I would like to earn your trust,"_ he answers, a bright, hopeful flush of Grace threading throughout his limbs. _"Perhaps one day, I can."_

* * *

Charlie works in earnest for about an hour, as Gadreel looks on intently through Sam's eyes. The sounds of scraping metal and the clacking of a keyboard slowly draw to a close, and her voice rises from beneath the console.

"These files are encrypted. This is gonna take a while," she stands and sighs dramatically. "So, takeout? Sleepover? Braid each other's hair?"

The sheer confusion and puzzlement flaring through Gadreel's Grace makes Sam bellow with laughter. Charlie regards him uncomfortably for a split second until Sam waves his hand at her. "No, it's just me. It's a long story."

She relaxes and shrugs. "I did say this would take a while."

Sam considers it, and when Gadreel doesn't object, he smiles. "Well, I've got an idea." He pauses. "But you haven't met our other residents, yet."

"Oh, yeah!" she chirps. "Cas, the angel, right?" She bounces on her heels, clapping her hands together. "I know you said he was Graceless now and everything, but… dude, an _angel_! It's not magical, but close!" She's wearing a face-splitting grin. "Let's go meet him now!"

Dean snorts a bit, his expression fond. "There's someone else here, too," he tells her.

"Oh… Well, if they like medieval fantasy and sci-fi, then the more the merrier!" she chirps.

Gadreel actually frets. Sam almost laughs.

"So, you know how angels work, right? They take—."

"—vessels. The heavenly kind of possession, that sort of thing," she cuts him off, looking mock-taken aback. "Yeah, I got it."

"Well," Sam says, "There's another angel here, inside of me. He's helping me out and healing up himself. He doesn't take over often, and just watches from time to time."

Her smile fades, lips parted. "There's an angel in you right now?"

Sam nods.

Her eyes crinkle at the edges, gleaming with a wicked air. "It's _inside_ you?"

Sam nods again, his head tilting a bit.

"And it watches from time to time?"

Sam's smile fades, his brow furrowing. He nods again.

Charlie snorts. "Kinky."

Sam almost sputters, falling over himself to explain how it's _not like that_ before his brain catches up to the fact Charlie's just teasing him.

Gadreel understands, somehow, and finds it mildly amusing. There's an unspoken, mock-exasperated comment about humans before he stills. It makes Sam smile, and wonder. How much good humor has Gadreel truly experienced in his long life?

"Seriously, though," Charlie asks, "The friendly kind of angel?"

Sam smiles, and nods. "Best kind you could hope for."

The angel freezes, surprise cascading throughout the Grace in his entire body. Gadreel seems shocked Sam would have anything nice to say about him.

Sam sighs softly. Yet another thing the two of them have to work on.

Charlie's lips twitch before her entire face blooms in excitement. "That's cool! I mean, I know the angels right now are all being kind of dicks and all, but still! A friendly angel!" She pauses, and all at once seems wary. "Is he watching right now? Can he hear me?"

_"Wanna talk to her?" _Sam asks, playing off of Gadreel's curiosity.

Gadreel hesitates. _"Is it acceptable?"_

Sam answers by pulling at Gadreel, tugging him forward and out of his hiding place. It's become a practiced dance, as he's gotten much better at pulling the angel's Grace-strings over the months. Gadreel expands in a bright sweep of Grace, while Sam feels himself drift backwards, even as the light consumes. Charlie gasps about the time Sam's eyesight goes blue-white with Grace. His sight returns to normal an instant later, and he goes to blink, but can't.

A few months ago, Sam had felt disconcerted and ill in these rare moments, when Grace would expand and fill him more wholly. With time, he's become used to it. In fact, it's somewhat of an adrenaline rush when the angel takes his body without dulling Sam's mind. It's a flush racing lightning-quick under cold skin; a tingle worrying his fingertips. It feels like leaping off the side of a cliff and discovering he's feather-light and drifting in midair.

"I am Gadreel," the angel says, and offers a handshake, a move he's picked up from movies and endless questions to Sam.

She grins so brightly she might as well have just won the lottery. "Oh wow! Oh my gosh!" She grabs his outstretched hand with both of hers in a powerful grip, and shakes vigorously. Gadreel, pleasantly surprised, allows his hand to move freely. "I'm Charlie! Charlie Bradbury!"

She glances over her shoulder to Dean, and _squeals_. "A real angel!" She turns back to Gadreel. "Something supernatural that's _not_ a monster. No need for holy oil!"

Sam feels his lips turn upwards in a slight smile. "I assure you, the holy oil is not necessary. Though, should it be needed, Dean Winchester will certainly not hesitate to 'deep-fry' me, as it were."

Sam's jaw would drop open if it could. He feels the angel glowing warm, his eyes crinkling, just short of a chuckle. It had been Dean's original threat—to 'dunk him in holy oil and deep-fry an angel' if things went wrong. And now, Gadreel's making light of it, and actually thinks it's funny.

Maybe Sam can't gape, but Dean certainly does. "Holy freakin' shit, Gad. Did you just make a joke?"

Charlie laughs (and Sam does too, from his vantage point). And for the first time since he's been in Sam, Gadreel _really_ smiles—bright and pleased and happy.

"It is my great honor to meet a woman of such incredible intellect," he continues. "Though I do not know how to braid hair or how to sleepover or takeout, I would enjoy joining you in your festivities, if it is permissible."

"Oh no, no, no… No, I mean _yes_, of _course_ you can!" she says so fast her words slur together. "Those are all expressions! But I can teach you how to braid! And you _have_ a sleepover. It's when you and a bunch of friends spend the night together and do things like watch movies and eat bad food and have fun!"

Gadreel doesn't understand a thing she's just said, but goes along with it anyway. "Oh. I see."

"And Sam's hair is totally long enough to braid, so I'll braid your hair and I'll teach you how to braid mine!" she says cheerily, though her eyes flash with a hint of uncertainty.

"I… all right," Gadreel answers, tilting his head, attempting to piece together what he's just agreed to. Sam thinks he'll double over in laughter (and his body isn't even laughing), though he firmly tells Gadreel _no one_ gets to braid his hair, thank you very much.

Dean absolutely loses it at Gadreel's confused answer—he's been snickering since Gadreel's joke—and turns away as he trembles and gasps for air between bouts of laughing. Sam hasn't heard Dean laugh so freely in… well, he can't even remember how long.

Charlie smiles like the first rays of summer, and it warms Gadreel to the roots of his Grace. And it's not Sam she directs her radiance toward, but Gadreel, and it makes all the difference to him.

"I must confess, I do not understand," Gadreel finally says. "Everyone is laughing, and Sam is adamant no one shall braid his hair."

A renewed fit of hysterical laughter tears loose from Dean, who at this point leans heavily against the wall, his hands holding his stomach. For all of the issues they still have to sort through, it's such a wonderful sight.

"Sam!" Charlie chides, having given into the madness of laughter herself, "Don't be a party crasher! These are _important things_ we have to teach your angel!"

Sam gets a hold of himself, sarcastically thinking_, "Whatever Charlie. My hair is not a part of this commitment."_ Which Gadreel goes on to repeat verbatim. Oops.

Charlie makes an interesting noise between a howl and a gasp, tears streaming down her face as she gasps between peals of mirth.

The room's laughter continues, and just as Sam finally gets a grip on himself, he feels something hot and bright rising to the surface. Gadreel's face splits open and laughter bubbles out of _his_ mouth, too. It's funny to him because everyone everyone else laughs and he knows he and Sam are part the joke somehow. But it's fond, not unkind, and he enjoys it.

Sam finds himself struck with the sound of Gadreel's laughter. He's never heard the angel laugh before. It feels so good to hear and he doesn't even know why.

An intense chill rushes through his skin, something deep within welling up with powerful force, and it doesn't come from Sam at all. As laugher spills from Gadreel's lips, mingling with the sound of Charlie's and Dean's, gooseflesh rises on Sam's skin. Profound relief ripples throughout Grace, along with a sharp rush of joy, and something bittersweet as well.

He feels like he belongs somewhere. He feels _welcome_.

It's the sheer joy of companionship with others, the joy of not sitting all alone in cage, trapped in lockup. The others continue on, but Sam's laughter has evaporated as he observes Gadreel. He feels the pleasant rumble of the angel's mirth shaking his limbs and heating his face.

And all at once, it almost goes bad. A spike of fear seizes the angel, a wave of frigid anguish flowing through his Grace. Because _this_, all of it, is impermanent. Gadreel remembers everything he's come to enjoy and cherish will disappear when he finishes healing Sam. They'll send him away, and he'll again dwell in solitude.

Gadreel's laughter stills, and once jovial tears sting at the edges of his eyes, threatening to turn into real tears instead.

Sam knows he has to intervene, somehow, before this turns into a mess. He doesn't know exactly what he's doing or what he's searching for, he just _feels_ the angel's Grace within, and acts.

It's not like before, when his mind had brushed feather-light against the intensity of Gadreel's Grace. No, this time, Sam reaches out and weaves a part of himself _around_ the angel's Grace, winding around the light and bright warmth which make up the core of Gadreel, and he offers comfort. He thinks of calmness and happiness and every soothing thing he can dredge up, and gives it to the angel.

Gadreel's eyes close, breath catching, his Grace _seizing_ in surprise. Sam thinks the angel isn't used to closeness with anyone, much less a human, and worries if maybe he's done the wrong thing. He doesn't expect it when Gadreel returns the odd embrace, his Grace flaring underneath skin and twining around Sam's own consciousness.

It's all fire and heat and light, but the intensity of it fades after a split second, and his entire awareness glows with warm, comfortable heat. A sea of gratitude flows towards him. Sam gives and Gadreel accepts, and Gadreel gives and Sam accepts, and for a few brief seconds, it's unlike anything Sam has ever felt in his life, and it's wonderful. It's weird and it makes no sense but it makes perfect sense, all at the same time.

Gadreel abruptly pulls away, slipping back into his mind, leaving Sam to drive the body. Sam takes a steadying breath, reaching up to wipe at his face, still smiling through it.

He's certain something intensely personal just transpired between Gadreel and himself, no matter how briefly, and he finds himself overcome with it. But he hides it with a smile and plays off his red face and tears as from the laughter.

"Yeah, so, like I said," Sam says, his voice a bit rough, "No one is braiding my hair, but I have an idea."

* * *

When they find Cas half an hour later, he's got a soaking wet kitten shivering in his hands, rescued from the clutches of late Autumn. Dean, fighting back a sneeze, proclaims the kitten absolutely cannot stay in the bunker. No way.

Charlie, in turn, proclaims Dean a heartless boyfriend. Castiel just gives him a sullen face, cradling the now-dry kitten in a thick towel and refusing to let go. He carries it with them to the couch, where it sleeps as they prepare to watch TV.

Gadreel glances over at the kitten several times, and resists the desire to reach out and touch its soft fur. It sleeps in Cas' arms, and he isn't certain how Cas might react. Yet, Gadreel observes it with fondness, from it's tiny form and white fluff down to it's delicate pink nose. It purrs softly, and a sweep of Gadreel's contentment spreads through Sam's limbs.

Sam observes with some amusement. He wonders if Gadreel enjoys small animals the way he enjoys plants. It would make sense.

_"I enjoy all of my Father's creations, Sam,"_ Gadreel tells him. Sam just smiles.

Three hours later, Charlie has braided Sam's hair in pigtails (Dean's already snapped a picture, to Sam's undying horror), and Gadreel expertly divides his time between watching Game of Thrones and attempting to braid Charlie's hair. Somehow, he manages to give both tasks extreme levels of attention.

Sam just sits back and watches. He's actually having a great time.

The finesse it takes to braid Charlie's hair seems just out of Gadreel's reach. With time, he's come to handle trimmers and Cas' plants well enough, but this new task requiring precise control of his fingers seems to leave him wanting. It's not the first time Sam's noticed it, per se, but it's the first time he pays attention. That's not normal, right?

His scrutiny doesn't go unnoticed. _"When I take control of your body, I do not fully possess you,"_ Gadreel tells him quietly. _"While awake, you would feel overwhelmed with my Grace, so I refrain. However, I lose the ability to affect some fine motor control."_ He pauses. _"I do not require it, in any event, to heal you."_

Sam had known this, in a way. After all, Lucifer never held back, and the archangel's power had been frigid agony and pain and light, all mixed together in an all-consuming storm. With Gadreel, Grace brims full and warm everywhere, but his skin doesn't feel as if it would burst open. By exclusion, Sam had known Gadreel didn't flood his mind with his full power.

Gadreel might not have enough strength, either. A jagged edge lingers in his thin Grace, grown rough after healing Kevin. Sometimes Sam thinks he feels an echo of the angel's pain. Gadreel tries to conceal it, but can't. Even now, his pain lingers like the last snow of winter, and Sam's concern ties a knot in his stomach.

_"You have a good heart, Sam,"_ Gadreel tells him, _"to worry for my sake."  
_  
Sam would refer to it as basic human compassion, but Gadreel probably wouldn't understand. So Sam says nothing.

Charlie continues to instruct Gadreel with pointers on French braiding her hair, and her enthusiasm pleasantly distracts everyone. "No, gather equal amounts, and pull just a little tighter. No, no, not like _that. _You need smaller groups of hair. Hmm, maybe we should try something easier."

Cas gives them a look bordering on comical. Gadreel doesn't seem notice but Sam does.

Sam smirks from his vantage point. Yeah, Dean's got Cas on a leash, in many ways. Sam, on the other hand, just enjoys watching his angel.

Gadreel's fingers twitch, ribbons of silky red hair splaying and slipping from between his fingers. He mutters an apology to Charlie and starts to braid again. If he heard Sam's slip of the thought—and Sam knows he undoubtedly did—he says nothing. Certainly, no one else is any the wiser.

Sam's starting to feel like he and Gadreel might share an entire world no one else is privy to.

Gadreel quietly checks in every few minutes, nervousness tense against his spine. He listens attentively for any sign Sam's feeling antsy and wants out. This extreme level of diligence puzzles Sam for a while, especially since he can just speak up at any time if he wants control again. Then he realizes Gadreel's never been set loose for this long before, not while Sam's also awake. Gadreel, despite his attempts to relax, has a coil of anxiety tensing low in his gut about it, fearful Sam will mind.

Oddly enough, Sam doesn't. Watching Gadreel interact with the world, and with people _other_ than him, well, it's kind of fun.

Charlie chats all through the marathon, and when Dean finally gives her a glare with 'shush' written all over it, she sighs dramatically, shoulders sagging with her mood. Then she grins, sun-bright and airy, and hops to her feet. She tugs at Gadreel's hands to get his attention, pulling until he stands. She leads him across the room to a set of small, creaky chairs, balancing a drink precariously in one hand. Gadreel's attention falls away from the TV and settles entirely on her.

She asks about Heaven, so Gadreel tells her what he knows, careful to leave out the gory details. As if sensing his reluctance, she next asks about Gadreel himself. It surprises him, but he haltingly tells her his story, and his relief when she doesn't recoil cascades through his limbs. She asks about meeting Sam and Dean, and what happened after the Fall, and so he tells her that, too.

Sam's heard it all before, but Gadreel's long confession to Charlie remains no less stunning. It's the longest stretch of talking Gadreel's ever done in Sam's presence.

"Seriously? So you spring the Heavenly slammer, find a vessel, and like ten hours later you march right into the crossfire to answer a prayer?" She sounds amazed and incredulous, but it's accompanied by a smile. "You had to know you were hopping out of the frying pan and into the fire with these two wingnuts!"

Gadreel hesitates, only partially because he doesn't quite understand the idiom. "No, I did not." His jaw clenches, a thin cord of tension winding inside him. "I cannot claim bravery on my part. I merely heard a prayer for help and answered it. I did not know of the Winchester brothers and their reputation until after I'd arrived."

"But you stuck around," she presses. "When the other angels were attacking, you let Dean put up all that angel warding. You let him trap you in the room."

Sam's attention stirs at this line of conversation.

Gadreel tilts his head slightly. "Indeed, I did."

"That's badass," she says. "I'd have been scared. I freaked out the first time these guys showed up."

His head tilts minutely. "Yet you completed your task. You are also… badass."

Charlie snorts, grinning. "Okay, then. So we're _both_ brave, I guess."

Gadreel smiles faintly for a moment, and grows silent, his eyes distant and unfocused. His distress hums deep in Sam's bones. "Charlie, you and Sam are friends, yes?"

She smiles. "Yep."

He hesitates. "Do you believe it is possible to redeem oneself after a mistake?"

"Wait, you mean like what happened in the Garden?"

"Yes, but… in this instance, I refer to Sam."

_That_ gets Sam's rapt attention, loud and clear. It doesn't go unnoticed by Gadreel, either, a low thrum of the angel's anxiety coiling around Sam's spine.

Charlie's lips part, brow furrowing. "Aren't you healing him? Keeping him alive after the badness of the Trials?"

"That I am," Gadreel answers, "but for an angel to enter a vessel, they must first gain consent. I did not understand in the beginning, but… the 'yes' Sam gave, while typical by the standards of angels, is considered unacceptable among humans." His lips quirk downward, distress thrumming throughout his Grace. "I spent a time in Sam's body, hiding from even him."

Sam knows this, of course. He's aware Gadreel was new to modern humanity and didn't understand the finer complexities of consent at the time. Sam's been waiting since the conversation over Castiel's flowers for the angel to sort through it on his own. And since Gadreel mentioned it earlier, during the conversation about Becky, and he's again poking at the subject now, he must feel ready to finally talk about it. So Sam sits back and listens quietly.

Charlie shakes her head. "But he's aware of you now, and he hasn't kicked you out yet."

"It is not so simple," he says. "If I leave, Sam will die. If he desires to live, he cannot expel me."

Her lips form an 'o'. "So he doesn't have a choice but to keep you around."

"It troubles me," he says, and his regret flows, cool and trembling, throughout Sam's body. "I like Sam, and would not wish him harm. However, now that I am familiar with human autonomy and how my brethren abuse it, I regret I took him as a vessel. I did not understand how a human might feel intruded upon, even for their benefit." He closes his eyes. "I have much to learn about many things, it seems."

Charlie's face contorts in a sour grimace. "Sounds like a Catch-22." When he frowns in confusion, she elaborates. "A no-win situation? You wish you hadn't done it because it hurt him, but if you hadn't, Sam would be dead. And would you have ever even learned it was bad in the first place?"

Gadreel's jaw relaxes, his eyes going distant in thought. "I do not know. Before the angels fell, I had never taken a vessel before."

"You know, Zachariah threatened Dean with stomach cancer if he didn't say 'yes' to Michael. You didn't do anything like that."

"While Michael's offense may be perceived as worse, it does not excuse mine." He sighs softly. "The end result—healing Sam—was all I considered." He pauses a beat. "I truly thought I could heal him, and leave him none the wiser. I believed I was doing the right thing." Shame and dejection pulsing through Gadreel's Grace, ringing clearer than Sam's own emotion.

Sam has to admit, he kind of prefers being alive right now, even as tired as he feels. And Charlie's right, too; Gadreel doesn't act anything like the other angels. He's had too much opportunity by now to take advantage of Sam, and he hasn't. It's probably why Sam's over the anger, now.

"You didn't mean any harm," Charlie says softly, putting a small, gentle hand on the angel's arm. "You're helping. And Sam doesn't mind you there now, right?"

Gadreel's expression tightens. "I believe a human would say, 'that does not make it all right.'"

And _that's_ the kicker. Good intentions or not, it had still been wrong. Sam had thought hearing Gadreel say it would feel vindicating, but now the moment's finally arrived, he's just kind of weary with the whole subject. Just another day in Sam Winchester's life, right?

Charlie's nose scrunches up in thought. "Well, you two are stuck together now, sure, but what about the future?"

He meets her eyes. "I do not understand."

"You say you wouldn't do it again, but if you ran into another situation exactly like what happened before, what would you do different?"

Gadreel frowns. "I would explain myself. I would accept a 'no' and leave them be."

Sam would probably smile, if he could. At least he's imparted one good lesson on the angel.

She nods slowly. "And what if it were someone you really cared about? Someone you didn't want to die, but you knew they would say 'no' if you gave them the choice?"

Gadreel stills, an uncertain answer ebbing and flowing in his Grace. "Though it would be difficult, I imagine I would give them their choice." He shakes his head, eyes closing. "These emotions, these ways…. They are difficult for me."

Emotions can cause a lot of problems for everyone, Sam thinks. It's no wonder the angel stays wound up like a clock.

Charlie nods. "Well, I guess it depends on what kind of an angel you want to be."

He frowns, head tilting. "I am myself."

"No, I mean, if you want to be a good angel or a bad one." She shrugs, gesturing with open palms. "You could be good as gold by angelic rules, but if your methods are immoral by human ones, people aren't going to trust you. They'll just assume you're a bad guy."

"I mean, it seems to me like the other angels wouldn't give a flip," she continues. "But if you don't want to be like them, you can't accept just any 'yes.' A person has to be able to make a clear choice."

Leave it to Charlie to deliver the simple truth with such clarity. Sam's going to hug her for that.

"I understand," Gadreel says after a long moment. "Thank you. Though it does not change the wrong I've committed against Sam."

"Well, at least you've apologized. That's a start," Charlie tells him, and draws a blank look. "You _did_ apologize, right?"

A flood of pure anxiety sweeps through Gadreel. "I… no. An apology hardly seems adequate."

A month or two ago, it might have felt grating to hear this from the angel. Now, Sam just feels drained. There's no changing or fixing it, after all.

Charlie sighs. "Listen, sometimes you can screw up bad enough that people will never forgive you. It's a part of life. You can say 'sorry' until you're blue in the face, but the other person doesn't have to accept it." She pauses for a beat. "But you should _always_ say it, even if they don't accept it. And don't just give an empty apology. It makes you a better person to try and make up for wrong stuff you've done."

Gadreel sits statue-still, stunned as he ponders the information. Sam thinks he might have to step in and explain it, but no, Gadreel _does_ understand.

"Thank you, Charlie Bradbury," he says finally. "You are a human most wise."

She grins brightly, her eyes crinkling. "Aww, you're just saying that to get on my good side! Besides, it's just a heart-to-heart between friends, right? A Woman of Letters and an Angel of Letters?"

He closes his eyes, his hands gripping the side of the seat unseen. "Friends," he repeats, the word thick and heavy against his tongue, voice unsteady. "You do me honor. Thank you."

"Hey, chin up, man. Only the truth." Charlie smiles. "Besides, we have the rest of Game of Thrones to watch sometime, right?"

He smiles. "Yes. Though… perhaps we might watch something different. I must say, I do not enjoy the violence."

She looks thoughtful. "Um. Hmm. Oh, I know! We'll watch Narnia!" She smiles. "It has some battles in there, but it's very PG, you know? Great story, though!"

He nods slowly. "Yes. I would enjoy that."

"Speaking of stories," she trails off, glancing over her shoulder to the far corner of the room. Cas and Dean remain engrossed in the TV. "We're missing a great part!" she tells Gadreel, hopping to her feet and tugging at him. "Come on!" Then Charlie draws up short, hesitating. "If you don't mind watching more, that is?"

He smiles. "Of course not." He follows her and slides down on the soft couch, his eyes pointed towards the TV, but unfocused. His mind has wandered elsewhere, a thrum of distress still itching hot against Sam's skin. All at once, Gadreel gives up control of the body and withdraws inside, leaving Sam driving his own body again.

Sam flexes his fingers experimentally, listening as Gadreel shifts inside of his skin. The angel's Grace shines warm and steady, and retreats to a rather atypical place—somewhere right behind his forehead. It puzzles Sam, but he then recallsthere's actually a place up there, hidden within his skull; the library-shaped headspace neither of them has visited since the day Sam learned about Gadreel.

Well. Seems like an invitation.

Sam breathes deeply and closes his eyes, withdrawing his awareness to a pinpoint inside his mind. He thinks of the giant, empty library, similar to the bunker's library, and yet not.

When his eyes open, he almost stumbles in surprise. The room no longer houses empty shelves, but brims full-to-bursting with books. He spares a moment to glance about before noticing Gadreel next to the fireplace, back turned to Sam.

Sam trudges forward, coming to a rest beside him. Absently, he holds out his hands to feel the warm glow of the fire. It burns hotter than before, and Sam wonders what it means. Everything here probably means something, after all.

After a long moment, Gadreel turns haunted eyes on Sam, the sharp lines of his face shadowed in the dim light. Sam finds himself reminded, yet again, this place more than any other allows for no secrets. Gadreel shifts his weight, possibly more vulnerable than Sam's ever seen him.

"Sam," he says, his voice barely a whisper, "I am sorry. I share blame with Dean, as I suggested healing you from the inside. In any event, your 'yes' was not one I should have accepted." His lips tighten into a thin line, and his eyes flit towards the dancing flames. "I shall never do so again."

Sam stares at the side of Gadreel's head, watching the smooth muscles of his jaw tense. Something heavy and cold gathers in his gut, because he can't say the words Gadreel needs to hear.

So, he offers the only thing he can. "I know you are."

Gadreel doesn't turn to face him. Sam can't help but think of how much they have in common. Gadreel let the snake in the Garden. Sam let the Devil loose upon the world. Both ranked as catastrophic, nigh-unforgivable mistakes, and they've both gone through Hell and come out the other side, battered and bloody, to pay for them. And yet somehow, here they both are, standing tall and stuck with one another.

All of this still doesn't make it all right, not by a long shot. Despite the fact they get along well, he doesn't know if he forgives Gadreel for it yet (he doesn't Dean, anyway). Even knowing the angel hadn't understood the wrong he committed changes nothing. But as he watches the angel, stolid even as his Grace hums with dread, Sam thinks—no, he knows—he _can_ forgive him. It's only a matter of time.

Maybe even soon. He's not exactly mad anymore, after all.

"This is what Dean doesn't understand," Sam says. "It's difficult to let someone you care for make a dangerous choice. It's why he insisted on doing the Trials himself. It's so much easier to sacrifice yourself than let someone you care for make a sacrifice for you." Sam's eyes go distant in the firelight. "Sometimes, we save people for our own sake, and not for theirs."

Gadreel's shoulders relax, just slightly. A moment passes, and he nods. "I understand. As promised, as soon as you are healed enough to survive, I will depart. And… you are not required to forgive me. I do not ask for or expect it."

Sam watches, feeling so much loneliness swirling dark and cold in the angel's Grace.

"But I want to," Sam says. "In time, I can."

Gadreel's head rises, mouth parted, face slack. Sam smiles weakly, and reaches out to press a hand to the angel's shoulder. He gives it a squeeze, because really, there's no need for the angel to feel all alone when he's not.

"Sam Winchester," he finally says, his voice a rough whisper, "you do not cease to astonish me."

Only a few seconds pass back in the real world, yet it seems they stand there a long time. They stare at one another openly, searching for answers amid the confusing mess.

When they return back to the outside world, Castiel and Charlie have busied themselves with setting up a box for the kitten in the corner. The two pad it with an old blanket, and discuss what will pass for cat litter until someone buys some.

Dean looks on, his expression one of utter defeat.

* * *

Scarcely an hour later, they're all racing through bunker with Dorothy Baum in tow, chasing the Wicked Witch of the West with bullets made of poppy seed. It sounds like a the plot of a lousy spinoff novel, but it's far too frightening and real for that.

And then Charlie dies. Dean screams for Zeke, the new nickname forgotten in the panic. Gadreel drops to her side, and doesn't hesitate.

"Resurrecting her will damage me," he warns both brothers at the same time. "Sam will be fine, but I will no longer be able to assist you against the Witch. I apologize." He pauses only a moment before nodding at Dean. "Good luck."

He presses a gentle palm to her forehead, and lets his power seep freely into her skin. Under the powerful ministrations of Grace, her heart flutters weakly, and finally restarts. About the time she sits up, gasping awake, Gadreel falls backwards, a soundless, agonized cry vibrating harshly in Sam's head.

Sam only barely gains control of his body before slamming into the solid wall, though it makes little difference. A wave of exhaustion and dizziness fills him and drops him to the floor. Alarmed, he reaches within for the angel, tries to pull on his Grace, tries _anything. _But Gadreel slips right through his fingers into a well of oblivion.

Sam catches his breath, sitting back up. "He's out," he tells Dean. "We're on our own, now."

* * *

Charlie _would_ end up saving all their asses.

A few harrowing hours and a dead Wicked Witch later, Sam watches as Dean, Charlie, and Dorothy talk about the Impala, Dorothy's motorcycle, and the rebellion in Oz.

Gadreel would probably have something to say, or a question about some aspect of the scene, if he weren't still out of it. Sam feels cold without the constant thrum of his warm Grace, and tries not to worry about the fact all his attempts to rouse Gadreel have ended in failure.

Charlie turns to Sam, and throws her arms around him.

"If you need anything," he tells her, "just… tap your heels together three times, okay?"

She snorts. "Me? What about you crazy kids? You going to be all right without me?"

Sam smiles warmly at her.

"Seriously though," she says, biting her lower lip, her entire posture slumping, "take care of my angel in there, okay?"

Sam stills, and tries to fight down a low thrum of worry all his own. "I will."

"Thank Gadreel for me, please, for bringing me back from the dead. Tell him when I get back we'll all have a real party, and by then he should have some favorite movies, and… Hey, do you think an angel would be into LARPing?"

Sam can't help but chuckle, just a little. It sounds muted and dull, his heart not in it. "Maybe. You can ask him when you come back, safe and sound yourself."

"Is he gonna bounce back soon?"

Sam nods to reassure her, though he'd _really_ like to know himself. So he lies. "Yeah, healing just takes a lot out of him. He healed Kevin before you got here, and I guess resurrection tires him even more."

Her lips curl downwards, her head bobbing slowly. "I guess he must feel wrung out a lot, even under normal circumstances. I mean, with healing you and everything, since you're like the walking dead without him, right?"

Sam opens his mouth to reply, but stops short, his throat going dry. The thought had actually never occurred to him, and now that it has, he feels stupid for never realizing it before. The angel weakens when he uses his power to heal others, yes, but he's constantly expending energy to keep Sam going, too. A thousand other thoughts follow, such as the way his Grace palpitates thinly through his muscles and veins, instead of a smooth, solid stream.

"Am I like a zombie, now? Do I need to eat brains?"

Sam laughs, her distraction welcome. "No, you're fine. Angel resurrection is perfectly non-monster territory."

Charlie chuckles, and nods. "I'll come back from Oz to check on you guys. You know, from time to time."

"Are you sure you want to go? We can always use a talented Woman of Letters."

"And get stuck in the war between Metatron and all the douche bag angels? Are you crazy?" She smiles, taking a few steps back. "Catch ya later," she says with a wink.

When the door opens, Oz shines bright and blinding as far as the eye can see. It's everything Sam would expect from a fairy realm, complete with the Emerald City glittering in the distance.

"Think she'll be back?" Dean asks.

Sam smiles faintly, feeling wistful. "Of course. There's no place like home."

* * *

_AN: Don't worry. We'll see Charlie again in this fic._


End file.
